Crimson Skies The Briefcase Blues
by Ywander
Summary: Set in the world of Crimson Skies, the aerial pirate Jason Grant and his gang the Firebirds are mixed up in a sinister plot surrounding a mysterious briefcase. Suddenly they are the center of attention of Russian spies, secret agents and zealous militia!
1. Chapter 1 Sunrise in the clouds

**Chapter 1 Sunrise In The Clouds**

The early sun was still hiding behind towering clouds of pristine whiteness. Scattered rays of orange light pierced the vaporous mountains and fell on a man standing in front of a large mounted rocket launcher. The man smiled as the feeble light tried to warm his face. His aviator-style scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck and he wore thick leather boots to keep his feet from going numb. In the freezing cold, warmth came only from the steaming hot cup cradled in his hands. The man stood motionless, sipping his Oolong tea with his eyes closed. Its taste took his mind back to China for a moment, to fragrant meadows and distant green mountains.

Opening his eyes, the man admired the cotton cliffs and ravines surrounding him. It soothed his heavy heart for a moment. There was no sunrise more beautiful, when seen from the bow turret of a zeppelin at ten thousand feet up in the sky. There was simply nothing that could spoil the view. It was almost as if he was flying through the air all by himself. Until two hands suddenly covered his eyes.

'Guess who?' said a young woman's voice teasing.

'Hmm, it's six AM, so it couldn't possibly be Alicia Vanderlubsen,' he replied with a calm voice. 'She would die of shock if she ever got out of bed this early,'

The young woman, in her early twenties, chuckled and moved to stand next to him, sharing his view for a moment. Her thick clothing could not entirely hide her slender figure. Long black hair danced in de morning wind.

'Well, a girl can change, can't she?' she asked, her blue eyes trained on the tall and handsome pilot. Her breath condensed in the cold, forming more clouds.

He nodded in agreement, but his eyes remained serious. He tried to recapture the feeling of the sunrise again and listened to the lulling drone of the _Damocles_' engines. He sighed.

'Nevertheless, even good things come to an end,' he continued. 'And so has your time with the Firebirds, my dear. It's time to take you back to your father. I just received a wireless that he has finally collected the ransom and agrees to our exchange arrangements.'

The raven-haired girl scowled.

'I won't go back, Jason. I love my father, but I'm a grown woman now. If I choose to stay with you and the Firebirds, then…then he'll just have to accept it!' She crossed her arms and looked away again, lips pouting.

'Oh, you'll go back all right,' the man retorted, ignoring her protests, 'Even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. What you do after that is your own business, but if a pirate doesn't deliver on a ransom exchange, he's in serious trouble. Both from the law and other pirates.' He smiled. 'Besides, I doubt spending time with the Firebirds can have much of a growing up effect on a person.'

'What are you talking about? What do other pirates have to do with it?' she asked, momentarily forgetting about her initial protest.

'It's one of the few unwritten laws we have. Never fail to deliver on a ransom exchange. If ransoms go sour, families will start to try funny stuff, like hiring private detectives or alerting the law. That means a lot more trouble for us decent, hard working pirates,' he replied with a weak smile.

He felt sorry to let her go. It had been fun having her around. The crew of the _Damocles_, the zeppelin that formed their airborne base of operations, had enjoyed having her around too. Officially she may have been kidnapped, but for Alicia Vanderlubsen, daughter of Franklin S. Vanderlubsen, the Pacifican steel giant, it had been the adventure of a lifetime. She had learned how to fly from him, Jason 'Jazz' Grant, leader of the Firebirds and captain of the _Damocles_. Marty 'Cheesehead' Rogier, the chief engineer, had shown her how their airplanes worked. Walter 'Scalpalot' Pratt had taught her to play some tunes on the guitar. And she learned to play cards from the twins, Nora and Margaret. But she was not cut out for the life of a pirate. It was asking for trouble.

She leaned against him and looked him in the eyes. Her full lips were dangerously close to his.

'Are you sure you want to take me back, Jason?' Her voice became low and sultry.

He bit his lip mentally, as hard as he could. She was using every ounce of feminine persuasion she had. _That's something she picked up from Bonnie_, he thought to himself. Antoinette 'Bonnie' Fortescue was their cargo pilot and more woman then most men could handle. He reminded himself that Alicia was just a girl. That he had to think of her as just another girl.

It wasn't helping much. They'd be asking for trouble, not in the least because he had started to get feelings for her. He suspected she knew it too. Better to end it right here, right now.

'Sorry dear, no dice,' he managed in a croak.

Sighing again, she closed her eyes. 'Your loss, flyboy. I guess I'll see you around.'

And with that, she left him alone at the turret. He stared after her until she disappeared in the forward hatch of the battle zeppelin. As soon as she was gone, he banged his head against the cold metal of the gun emplacement until the pain in his head surpassed the pain in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2 Business As Usual

**Chapter 2 Business As Usual**

The _Pacifica Princess_ was a common, two-deck passenger zeppelin and not much to look at. Carrying mostly bored travelers without money to spend on luxury, she had no escort from an expensive security company such as Blake Aviation Security. No pirate would waste any effort or resources on her anyway. This made her an ideal meeting point to exchange Alicia for the generous ransom provided by her father.

Floating lazily through the dusk just entering the Disputed Western Territories, the _Pacifica Princess_ was slowly, but steadily heading east on her way to the Empire State. Trailing far behind was a little speck. It glinted in the softening sunlight as it rapidly gained on the zep from below. As it approached the bulky airship it grew into the characteristic shape of a Hughes P21-J Devastator fighter plane, with the small elevators up front, the x-shaped wings in the middle and the propellor pushing in the back. Armed, armored and agile, the plane was painted black with red trimmings. Jason Grant had personally stolen and modified her and painted the nose art of a beautiful woman, hiding half visible in the shadows. She was the _Shady Lady_, renowned and infamous, the trademark plane of the leader of the Firebirds. But trailing the bulking zeppelin, she seemed almost diminutive in comparison. Jason 'Jazz' Grant sat behind the stick with Alicia 'Ransom' Vanderlubsen sulking in the observers seat behind him.

'I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to everybody. I couldn't find Patrick anywhere,' she said sulkily. 'How are we going to get on board anyway?'

'Just sit tight and both your questions will be answered,' Jazz replied mystically and flicked the switch of the plane's landing lights on and off. He was rewarded by a flashing light from beneath the zeppelin's cabin.

'Looks like we're in business,' he cheered. Steering the plane closer, he brought them within range of the machinegun turrets.

As they approached from behind, they saw the docking arm extended fully. Jason flicked another switch and both halves of the Devastator's docking clamp rose with a mechanical whine from the fuselage and locked above the canopy. Jazz had to use every bit of flying skill he had to get the docking clamp through the ring as gently as possible. No need to alert the crew of the zeppelin by smacking into the docking ring. As the clamp locked itself around the ring he slowly throttled back, to minimize the impact of the extra weight of the plane on the zep.

'All right, let's get to work!' he called towards Alicia and opened the canopy. The evening wind whipped and tugged at them as they carefully climbed up the steps of the rickety metal ladder. The hatch was already open. Once inside, they found themselves in the cargo compartment. A smart looking young man dressed in a busboy's uniform stood waiting for them. He even had a small white towel draped over his arm.

'Two for dinner?' he asked, grinning broadly.

'Patrick!' Alicia exclaimed, hugging the other pirate.

Hugging her back he answered 'Careful now, keep this up and I'm going to keep you, no matter how high the ransom.'

Patrick 'Undertaker' Fayne wagged his finger to warn her. He was young, with perfect cut black hair and a quick smile. He had the kind of eyes that girls couldn't help falling for and functioned more or less as the Don Juan of the outfit.

'I couldn't find you back on the _Damocles_ when we were leaving,' she said. 'I thought I had to leave without even saying goodbye.'

'That was because old Undertaker here was already on his way to Portland where he used his charms to get on board the _Pacifica Princess_ as a crewmember.' Jason interrupted. 'He made sure no one could spot us, while we docked. Tell me, did you have to lead another poor innocent girl astray again?'

'A gentleman never tells,' he replied. 'And since I'm not, yes, I did. But don't worry, I don't think she has any regrets.' His grin broadened even more.

'Then let's get started,' Jason said in a serious tone of voice. 'Is our guest where he's supposed to be?'

'Table seven in the dining compartment,' Patrick replied equally serious. 'It's on the upper deck. He's sitting alone and as far as I can tell he's unarmed. I do have some doubt about two guys sitting in the back though. One of the crew told me they got on board before we told daddy Vanderlubsen our rendezvous plans, but I still have a funny feeling about them.'

'Okay, I'll keep an eye out.'

Jason pulled out his sidearm and checked it. The nine millimeter Browning lay heavy in his hand. The gun was loaded and the safety catch was off. Patrick inspected his much smaller and inconspicuous .38 Smith & Wesson and closed the chamber. They were taking no chances. They moved through the cargo compartment, up a stairwell and halted in front of the door leading to the dining compartment. Patrick pointed through the small window towards a middle-aged man, sitting at a window table with an untouched plate of food in front of him. The man looked extremely weary and tired, yet his eyes kept shooting around the compartment, where the other passengers were enjoying their dinner. Jason held up his hand and all fingers to indicate that Patrick should wait five minutes. The other pirate nodded. Then he took off his leather flying jacket and walked through the door. He wore a plain pair of pants and a black sweater with a zipper to hide his shoulder holster. Better not to attract any unwanted attention.

Casually glancing around the compartment he found the two men that Patrick had meant. They certainly weren't the average passengers. One was bald and had a scar running from his left ear down to his collar. The other was bulking with muscles and had the mean look of a playground bully. They didn't seem interested in Vanderlubsen and they weren't playing bored as an undercover cop would. They seemed transfixed on the door opposite of the one Jason had come through. Trying to keep them in the corners of his eyes, he walked by Vanderlubsen's table and quickly sat down. The man startled and his hand flew to a brown leather briefcase lying on the chair next to him.

'Good evening Mr. Vanderlubsen,' Jason said on a conversational tone. 'Mind if I sit down?'

'Are...are you the one called Jazz, the pirate?' the man asked.

'We prefer the term opportunistic entrepreneurs, but let's not argue. Yes, I am Jazz.'

'Where's my daughter? You did bring my daughter, didn't you? I swear, if you harmed her, I...I...'

Jason put his gun on the table and quickly covered it with a napkin. Vanderlubsen almost choked.

'Calm down Mr. Vanderlubsen, this is not the time to get all excited. Things don't go well when people get excited. Let me make it clear that you are not in a position to start making threats. Now, do you have my money?'

Vanderlubsens hand flew to the briefcase again.

'Yes,' he managed, getting a grip again. 'But I want to see my daughter first. I don't care what you do. I want to see her first.'

'All right, this is how it works. In –' Jason glanced at his watch, '– two minutes, your daughter will appear in the door of the aft stairwell. When she does, you will open the briefcase and show it to me. If you make me a happy man, I'll take it and walk away. At the same time your daughter will walk towards us. We'll cross each other midway, so no funny stuff, or no daughter. Got it?'

The man nodded. They both waited while the seconds passed like molasses. Vanderlubsen kept his gazed locked on the door like glue. Jason hoped he wouldn't jump up and run for his daughter. He had put too much effort in this whole thing to let it end as a common robbery. And he wouldn't have time to check the money. He glanced around the room. All the passengers were eating their meals quietly. A few moved around, but none seemed to have any particular interest in them. A haughty woman in a horrible green dress argued with a waiter, another man looking like an accountant and holding a briefcase with both hands, appeared to be unable to find his seat. And all the way, time was taking it easy.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Alicia appeared in the doorway. Patrick stood behind her and nodded to Jason. He moved his hand to show Vanderlubsen his .38 pointed straight at her waist. Vanderlubsen almost got up, but Jason's hand was already on his shoulder.

'We're not there yet Mr. Vanderlubsen,' he hissed, 'Now show me the money.'

He pointed his gun lying under the napkin to the other man. With tears in his eyes, Vanderlubsen obeyed. He opened the briefcase and showed it to Jason. Clean and crisp twenty dollar bills lay neatly stacked in rows, ranking fifty thousand dollar in total.

Now comes the hard part, Jason thought to himself. Just play it cool and don't get carried away. He stood up slowly, forced himself to breath normally and took the briefcase. He kept his Browning covered with the napkin in his other hand. Then he nodded towards Patrick to let Alicia go.

'Remember Mr. Vanderlubsen, no funny stuff.'

And with that he walked away. Alicia came to meet him halfway with eyes that were both aflame with anger and glitterering with excitement. She extended her arms to give him a final hug, something Jason wished she wouldn't, when the accountant-looking man accidentally backed into him, still looking for his seat. He muttered some apology and Jason tried to get around him. From the corner of his eye he saw the two strangers across the room get up and reach under their jackets.

In a split second, he raised his own gun and shoved Alicia aside, sending her sprawling across the table of the arguing woman in the green dress. The first shots boomed through the dining compartment. Jason heard something angry whiz past his ear as he jumped behind a girder of the zeppelin's interior structure. Kicking over a table for cover, he brought his gun to bear. The two men tried to get to him, but the passengers had panicked and were running everywhere, screaming and shouting.

_Great, this whole thing is going south!_ he thought grimly, as he tried to get an aim on the two, but there were too much passengers in his line of fire. All of a sudden, he felt the barrel of a gun sticking in his side. He turned, expecting to see Vanderlubsen trying to get his revenge. Instead he saw the accountant's sweaty face almost pressed into his own. The man kept his own briefcase clutched firmly to his chest.

'You won't get me, you'll never get me! I'll kill you before I'll let you have it! I'll –'

His words were cut off by a metallic bang coming from a serving tray connecting with the back of his head. He slumped to the floor unconsciously as Patrick smiled and lowered the tray. Jason was about to thank him when a vase exploded a few inches to his right. He brought his gun up again and fired a few rounds into the ceiling, tricking the two into cover. He checked the position of the two attackers and to his surprise found one of them firing at two other men in black suits, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. _What the hell? Where did those clowns come from?_ Jason's mind raced. They were boxed in. Scarface and Muscle Man stood by the door leading to the cabins, while the two black suits blocked the access to the cargo compartment. And about every other shot was aimed at them, while at the same time forcing the others to keep their cover.

'You know a way out of this flying coffin?' he shouted to Patrick who nodded with an anxious expression.

'Yeah, to your left is an emergency exit,' he replied, while squeezing off a few shots at the black suits. 'There are steps mounted on the outside of the hull, leading down past another emergency exit in the cargo compartment. We can get back in through there.'

More bullets smacked into the table that formed their crude cover. Jason returned the favor by blasting a water pitcher just behind the first two attackers. As they ducked back behind their cover, Jason grabbed the briefcase and made a run for the emergency exit. Patrick fired another salvo and followed him. When they reached the emergency exit, they found Alicia Vanderlubsen and her father hiding behind a trolley. Vanderlubsen pulled out a small Derringer gun, but Jason caught his hand and threw him a right hook that instantly knocked him out of commission.

'Sorry pops, no time to make new friends.' he quipped as he pulled down a parachute hanging by the exit. Even though she was struggling, Alicia soon found herself strapped in a parachute along with her father, tied to her with a curtain rope. When Jason opened the emergency exit, she grabbed his arm.

'Please take me with you, I want to stay!' she implored.

'Sorry dear, I told you I would take you back,' he replied, while standing in the dark outline of the exit. There was only blackness beyond. 'But remember, whatever you do after this, your life is your own choice!' He took her in his arms and fueled by an adrenaline rush and a sudden impuls he gave her a farewell kiss, square on the lips. Just one single moment, they shared the warmth of eachothers lips, pulsing with their racing hearts. Then he grabbed the pull cord of the parachute and shoved her and her father straight out the door. After a few seconds a white parachute bloomed against the dark land below.

'Bye now, don't forget to write!' Patrick called after them.

They clambered down the steps mounted on the outside of the zeppelin's cabin. Cold wind tugged at them as they held on for dear life. Jason covered them, trying to hold on with the briefcase in one hand and his gun in the other. Patrick opened the lower emergency exit and went inside. Just before he could get in himself, Jason saw a face appear in the door above him. Without hesitating, he jumped from the steps into the cargo compartment. Two bullets smacked into the floor next to his feet.

'Get to the _Shady Lady_, I'll cover you,' he instructed Patrick. His younger gang member saluted with a smile and made a run for it. Jason backed down the small alley between piles of suitcases and airmail bags, keeping his eyes on the emergency exit and the door to the staircase. When he was almost at the hatch of the docking arm, another hatch opened directly above him. One of the black suits jumped down. More shots sounded from above. Both acting on reflexes, the two men swung their fists at each other. Jason evaded the man's right hook and punched him square on the chin. The man recovered quickly, but not before Jason's knee came up his stomach. As he doubled over and gasped for air, a small metal object fell through the hatch and landed on top of the man. It had a missing pin.

The next moment, everything happened in a blur. Jason grabbed the briefcase and pulled down a pile of airmail bags on top of the man. He made a dive for the exit hatch and landed on his stomach, hanging half way out of the hatch. Before he could grab a hold an explosion ripped the air apart and shoved him into the void.

He smashed into the ladder and grabbed instinctively for a hold. Cold wind blowing in his face cleared his mind and he found himself hanging on with one hand underneath the violently rocking zeppelin. Smoke was pouring out of a side window, while others lit up with more gunfire inside. He got a firm grip on the ladder and started to make his way into the familiar surroundings of the _Shady Lady_'s cockpit. He shoved the briefcase under his seat, closed the canopy and began the ignition sequence.

'Come on, let's get this show on the road!' Undertaker yelled from behind him. Like every aviator, he didn't like sitting anywhere but the pilot's seat. Jazz was just about to answer him, when he saw the man with the facial scar through the hatch, holding a .45 Thompson. At point blank range, there was no way he could miss. Without thinking, Jazz pulled the release handle of the docking clamp. Like a bat from it's perch the Shady Lady dropped from the smoking zep, but without her engine running, she fell like a brick.

'What the hell are you doing?!' Undertaker screamed in panic, his stomach somewhere between his ears.

'Just a precaution!' Jazz replied in a calm voice as he worked the switches with lightning speed. The altimeter spun around, counting down their altitude.

_Fifteen hundred feet, thirteen hundred feet._ He pressed the starter button and heard the familiar whine of starter motor. With one eye on the altimeter and one on the engine's rev counter he silently prayed one to go slower and the other to go faster.

_One thousand feet, seven hundred feet._ They were running out of sky.

'What the hell,' he muttered to himself, when he felt the plane shudder and heard a coughing sound as the powerful Tornado engine was cranked. The engine coughed and wheezed and with a final stutter, came to life.

_Five hundred feet, three hundred feet._ Jazz shoved the throttle forward and yanked the stick back as hard as he could. The ground rose up through the early night and raced towards them. The engine roared in fury as the plane finally started to nose up. G forces weighed down on Jazz and Undertaker, squashing them into their seats. The _Shady Lady_ leveled out just a few feet off the ground. Trees and bushes shot past left and right. Slowly she rose, climbing to a less risky altitude. Inside the canopy, the two pirates were whooping with relief.

'All right, looks like a load of money in this briefcase,' cheered Jazz, 'We've finally got what's due! Let's head for the _Damocles_ and start the party!'


	3. Chapter 3 Backfire

**Chapter 3 Backfire **

'The party is what?!'

Slamming her fist on the poker table in the _Damocles_' crew lounge, Nora 'Wicked' Wickett was steaming with anger. She was a tall young woman, good looking, but with a rough outdoor-edge. Long brown hair fell down her shoulders and her hazel eyes were ablaze with shocked unbelief. They were locked on Jason Grant, who stood in front of the assembled crew of the Firebirds.

'The party is cancelled,' was his cool reply.

Her twin sister Margaret 'Wild' Wylde joined in. 'But…but…the ransom! Don't we have the ransom?'

She wasn't as tall and her hair was shorter. She had more of a 'girl next door' look to her, but her baby blue eyes and bright smile still turned men into idiots. Although not actual twins, both women had been together for as long as they could remember, growing up together in a New York orphanage. Their bond was so close, everybody automatically assumed that they were, in fact, twins.

'All we have is this,' answered Jason and slung a brown leather briefcase onto the table. It looked innocent enough. The entire assembled crew of the Firebirds stood in the lounge and none of them would have thought it could be the center of so much commotion. Jason opened it and spilled the contents on the table. Nothing but a thick stack of papers came out. It should have been a large pile of money.

'Well, cap'n, what the hell is it?' demanded Walter 'Scalpalot' Pratt. The wiry man of undeterminable age and serious expression usually kept to the background, but the tone of his Irish tinted voice betrayed his agitation.

Jason stood up slowly. He had some explaing to do to his crew and it wasn't going to be easy. 'During the crossfire, the briefcase must have been accidentally switched. I have a strong feeling that the whole shoot-out was because of this briefcase, not because of Alicia Vanderlubsen.

Walter scooped up a few papers and glanced through them. 'All that because of some scientific mumbo-jumbo. Nothing but math and physics.' He squinted, 'Extrapolated trajectory of single emissioned deuterium particles impacting… whatever! Is it valuable?'

'That's what I'd like to know,' said Jason again. He had opened the briefcase in his private compartment onboard the _Damocles_, now hovering over the border with Canada. A leader's perogative. He had worried his crew might get anxious when the deal they worked for so hard blew up in their face. So far, no accusations had been made. Ssomething would have to be done to set it straight, though. Pretty damn soon too.

He turned towards a huge man standing at the back of the group. 'Its certainly worth a lot of trouble to some people. Marty, what do you make out of it? Can you tell if it's worth anything?'

A man detached himself from the back of the small crowd and stepped forward. Like most of the Firebirds, Martin (Marty for friends) Rogier still wasn't past the age of thirty-five. Almost as tall as Jason, but with a much broader physigue, he could single-handedly lift a .70 caliber cannon into an airframe without breaking a sweat. His character was the opposite however. Gentle and good humoured, he was always prepared to help the crew out with his unmatched technical talent. He took some of the papers and studied them more thorough then Walter had done. The whole room looked at him, waiting for him to say something. Finally, he spoke.

'I have a faint idea what this is. It has to do with atomics, but for all I know it could be just some lab results. I fix planes, not atoms. Some things are just fine they way they are and should be left alone.'

That raised a few eyebrows. Marty was known as a man that took everything apart just to find out how it worked. Even in his spare time he was always fiddling with odd bits of equipment or inventions. Jason sighed, this was getting them nowhere. 'I don't care anyway. This isn't what we came for. I want our money and we're going to get it back.'

The twins whooped, so did Patrick and rest of the maintenance crew, who also doubled as gunners, cooks, first aids and fire fighters. It was an odd mix of Americans and Russians who had stayed after the Firebirds had taken over the zep. They had decided that the risky life of a pirate was still better then the certainty of facing the Gulag. Walter and Marty kept serious however. Going back to the scene of the crime meant that they would be risking patrols of local militia or security corporations.

That was when the door to the lounge slammed open. A stunningly beautiful woman walked in holding a newspaper. Long reddish-brown hair flowed down her shoulders. Her hazel eyes had an expression of perpetual sensuality and her body looked like it belonged in the movies. With perfect control she walked in, knowing very well everybody was looking, almost drooling at her. Jason noticed that Antoinette 'Bonnie' Fortescue still liked a big entrance. Her air of an irresitable femme fatale caused everybody except Jason to call her by her callsign. When she reached the desk, she threw the newspaper on it. Even though her French accented voice was low and sultry, Jason couldn't help noticing the tension in it.

'What the hell happened back there? I picked up this newspaper when I was getting supplies and look what it says; the _Pacifica Princess_ has been shot down! Mon dieu, everybody's dead!'

Jason came round the table so fast, he knocked his chair over. Snatching the newspaper, he saw the two major headlines on the front page. One said '**Vanderlubsens Pay!**', the other was much more sinister.

**Airship Executions**

Last night the _Pacifica Princess_, on her way to the Empire State, was raided by dastardly air pirates and brutally pillaged. Only two people survived the massacre as afterwards, the cowardly pirates shot down the unarmed passenger zeppelin over the Disputed Western Territories. Government officials have no explanation for this outrageous act of barbarism, other then a heedless thirst for blood and money.

The couple who managed to escape with their own parachute commented: "They came from everywhere! They ramparted through the cabins and kept shooting. When they were gone, we thought we were safe at least. Then the explosions came and the fire. We always travel with our own parachutes within reach. We opened a window and jumped out. It was hours later before a search party found us."

There was no need to read any further. The lounge fell silent again, but with a sharp edge. The entire crew was looking at Jason and Patrick.

'Ramparted?!' bursted Patrick as he turned to Jason, 'I distinctly do not recall any ramparting. No ramparting from this guy, no sir. Did you do any ramparting?'

'This report doesn't add up,' he replied. 'When we left, the _Pacifica Princess_ was in bad shape from that grenade, but that was just the cargo hold. She sure as hell wasn't going down. If this news is real, somebody came in after us.'

The tall pilot picked up his chair and sat down. To his relief, some of the others did the same. First the whole mission goes sour, then this weird briefcase pops up and now this. He plucked his eyebrow while lost in thought. What he needed were some facts to base their further actions on.

'All right, it's time we get down to business. It looks like we have three separate groups. The two guys who were sitting in the dining compartment, the two in black suits who came in later and those so-called pirates. If that is what they are. First we check out what really happened. The last thing we need, is the militias on our back, thinking we are mass murderers. Then we go after them. You need a few planes to gun down a zeppelin and somewhere somebody's got to know something. There are masses of moonshiners, smugglers and other pirates in the area and I know a few of them. It's time to call in the favors.'


	4. Chapter 4 Briefing

**Chapter 4 Briefing**

The _Damocles_ was heading south-east through a thick layer of clouds, obscuring her from prying eyes. Just above her bridge was the captain's cabin, overlooking the view in front of the zep. Jason Grant sat in his huge Chesterfield armchair and stared into infinite whiteness. They had passed the crash site of the _Pacifica Princess_ by a safe distance, making inquiries among the bootleggers and moonshiners that inhabited the region. All the reports concurred. There had indeed been another pirate clan sighted at the time of the raid and it troubled Jason greatly. These guys weren't amateurs and although they hadn't done anything as gruesome like this before, nobody would have put it past them.

'As if we didn't have enough problems,' he muttered to himself. 'Why did it have to be the Red Skulls?'

His mesmerizing was interrupted by the intercom system.

'Cap'n?' came the voice of Walter. 'We're approaching Sky Haven. You still want to go an' have a bit of a looksee?'

'I'll be down in a sec, Walt,' replied Jason, grateful of the distraction. He hauled himself out of the all too comfortable chair and walked down the hull of the _Damocles_ towards the launch bay. Smells of aviation fuel and the buzz of working mechanics greeted him as he entered. The floor of the cavernous hangar bay swayed lightly in the cold morning wind. As always, Jason quickly estimated the availability of his crew.

Every airplane the Firebirds owned either hung from the ceiling or stood on the catwalks on either side of the large armored bay doors. Most of them were in pretty good condition, especially given the fact that Marty often had to make do with whatever he had lying around. A few shot up wrecks at the far end were in various states of disassembly, stripped clean of all useful parts. Right where he had left her, the _Shady Lady_ hung gleaming from her perch without a scratch. Her remarkable cross shaped wings and slender body exalted a menacing air. Hanging in front of her were Patrick's sleek Curtiss-Wright Fury, _Miss Behave_, sporting its enormous .70 caliber autocannon and Walter's smaller Fairchild F6, dubbed _Lil' Bastard_. Both fighters, along with the _Shady Lady_, were kept on a continuous standby in case of an attack. Together with the large hydraulic arrestor hooks, they took up much of the central space in front of the launch doors.

To their port side stood _Le Grand Charles_, Bonnie's big twin engine Bristol Balmoral bomber. Being by far the largest plane, it barely fitted inside the maintenance bay. One of the crew, now dressed in an oil-smudged coverall, was working on a problem with the left landing gear. Directly behind her loomed the menacing silhouette of _Plane Crazy_, Marty's large and streamlined Hughes Firebrand. Way up front, on the starboard side of the bay, were the twin's planes. They were undergoing extensive overhauls, because the groundpounders wouldn't be needed in a hurry. The engines of Nora's huge P3 Warhawk were all hoisted out of it's triple hull and Margaret's sturdy McDonnel S2B showed an assorted tangle of wires and cables hanging out of the two gaping holes where the cockpits should have been. Half a dozen mechanics worked feverishly on them, shouting for parts and tools and occasionally cursing in Russian. Yes, there was still a lot of work to do.

Jason hopped up the metal stairs to Marty's office with its large windows overlooking the launch bay. From there he could see everything going on in his domain. As soon as he entered the room five pairs of eyes locked on to him like seeker rockets. All flyers were already assembled, either sitting on the comfortable leather sofa, or hanging around looking bored. Everybody had their leather jackets already on and their white scarves at the ready, except Walter who wore a marine-blue woolen coat and ditto cap. He looked more like a sailor then an aviator. Yes, all flyers were present; except one.

'Where's Antoinette?' Jason asked the group.

'She asked me to drop her off on the train going t' Sky Haven,' answered Walter. ''N don't give me that look. We were far away, nobody saw us, not even the folks on the train. The lass said she wanted t' see some old friends before us lot show up 'n raise merry hell as usual.'

Jason hated it when his orders were ignored, but they were a bunch of pirates, not exactly strict rule followers. And Antoinette had a history of doing her own thing. He decided to let it slide for now.

'Ok, Marty, where are we?' he started the morning meeting.

'About thirty miles north of Sky Haven. A more wretched hive of scum and villany you will never find,' the tall Dutchman replied as he picked up a clipboard from the desk. 'For the rest we're not in bad shape at all. All planes are fueled, loaded and ready to go, except the twins' of course. And _Le Grand Charles_ has a leaking landing strut, but as long as she stays airborne that's nothing to worry about. The old lady herself is also still in good shape. We got a few minor helium leaks and those Mikulin engines are real oil guzzlers. If anybody is after us, they might as well follow the trail of oil spills on the ground. I've modified four so far. The Fords that Boeing installed are fine.'

Before the _Damocles_ became their aerial base, she had served as the Russian strike zeppelin CCCP _Vostok_. When she came to the aid of a tankership, which was being raided off the coast of Pacifica by the Fortune Hunters, half her engines were shot to pieces. She managed to limp to Boeing Field, where the missing engines were replaced, only to fall victim to hijacking by the Firebirds. Since then, Marty had made a few modifications of his own.

'The real problem, however,' he continued, 'is supplies. We're still short on .50 caliber rounds, high-ex rockets, helium and fuel is running low too. In short, Jason, we need that money.'

'All right then, let's get to it.' Jason peered over a large map of the Sky Haven area. 'The _Damocles_ stays here, well out of sight of Sky Haven. Patrick and Walter are flying escort today. There are lots of pirates in the area, so if you run into any trouble you hightail it outta here. Defensive flying only! Do I make myself clear?'

He looked Patrick and Walter straight in the eyes. They both nodded with a suspicious grin on their face.

'I'll fly in alone with the _Shady Lady_ and stay low key. Our contact told me to look for a guy in the Brothel Buzz. He's supposed to be a member of the pirates who gunned down the _Pacifica Princess_. I'll ask him a few questions and we'll be one step closer to our rightful property. Everybody set? Let's go!'

The gang cheered their agreement and they were off. Jason didn't feel it necessary to tell them that the guy was a Red Skull. That information was on a need to know basis. As they all started for the door, Marty put his hand on Jason's shoulder to hold him back. Leaning over conspiratorially he whispered.

'I really don't like that briefcase, Jason. That whole nukeler stuff is nothing but trouble. I saw what happened to a guy in Germany when they were experimenting with something called "medical ice-o-topes".' The big man closed his eyes and shuddered for a second as if trying to shake off something. 'Let's just say the world is better off without it.'

'Marty, if I had my way, I'd light that wretched briefcase on fire just to ease your mind. But right now we might need it as leverage.'

Nodding, Marty looked at his shoes and remained silent for a moment. Finally shrugging it off, he cheered up.

'You know, we finally had a successful test with that aerial torpedo that I mixed up with a seeker rocket. It actually managed to home in on the target!'

Seeker rockets were able to home in on a simple radio signal emitted by a beeper rocket. If a beeper rocket could be shot into another zeppelin or aircraft, every following seeker would come after it. The application of this in aerial torpedoes would mean that only one dangerous run would have to be made at the target to fire a beeper rocket and the torpedoes could be fired from a safe distance. It sounded like great news, but somehow Jason felt something nagging at him. He had a high regard of Marty's experiments, as long as he didn't have to test them.

'So the target was destroyed?' he asked.

Marty hesitated.

'Not as such', he admitted reluctantly, 'It blew up half way because of the extra rocket fuel to make it long range. But the principle of the thing works like a charm!'

Jason stood up and smiled sincerely at his crew mate.

'Marty, if you mean a charm like a rabbit's foot, or a four leave clover, I think I'll pass.'

Once back in the launch bay, he saw how the twins had joined the mechanics to fix their planes; Patrick and Walter clambered into their own and started their take off routines. Marty had already shaken off Jason's mistrust and walked over to the crane controls to shout instructions to his crew. He even added a few Russian curses he'd picked up. Jason watched them all get to it. Seeing his crew work together, swift and flawless, always gave him a sense of pride. They were the best damn crew of pirates in the skies and he was honored to have of them. With good hopes, he climbed into his own bird and took off for Sky Haven through misty morning clouds.


	5. Chapter 5 Checking The Records

**Chapter 5 Checking The Records**

It was nearing noon before Jason found his way to the Brothel Buzz. Located in a narrow valley of the Rocky Mountains, it was only accessible by ground. With the _Shady Lady_ parked at a nearby field, carefully stowed under a dense canopy of trees, Jason hitched a ride to the bizarre whorehouse. As they drove down the mountain in a drizzle of rain, passing beneath the dazzling height of the railway bridge, the Brothel Buzz loomed up in the distance. Made from the wreckage of a crashed Texas Rangers zeppelin, it made an impressive sight to see. The enormous framework was still largely covered and housed the working girls, the 'staff', the Cloud Nine bar which stood in the mid section, and it even served as a parking garage. Each end of the zep's hull was cut away for easy access. You got in through the front with your car and if anybody started to make trouble, quite a regular occurance, the brawlers were swiftly dispatched through the back exit.

It felt good to be back in Sky Haven, Jason thought to himself. The modern Tortuga of aerial piracy on Mount Wausa served as a refuge, trading post and as a place to unwind after much hardship. The fresh air and beautiful mountains all around worked miracles on the weary. Every clan of pirates could come here in peace, if they obeyed the basic rules of course. Sky Haven's strange architecture of makeshift houses, hangars and bars all stacked upon one another was home to anybody who didn't want questions asked or who was looking to buy or sell things on the black market. Here, they could buy ammunition, fuel, parts, planes and a good time with the ladies. It was this last particular commodity that Jason was heading for. The man he was looking for supposedly was a true regular at the Brothel Buzz.

As soon as the truck stopped, Jason hopped out. He thanked the driver and walked towards the Cloud Nine bar. At this time of day, it was virtually deserted. Two bored working girls stood smoking at the end of the bar. Half a dozen local drunks had fallen asleep at their table, except the one sitting on a stool by the bar. A blood red ribbon was tied over the sleeve of his worn leather flight jacket, a tell tale sign of the Red Skulls. Pungent smells of alcohol, sweat and sigarettes hung about him. By the look of the mans grubby beard and dirty fingernails, he gathered the man hadn't seen a bath up close for quite a while. Taking a seat next to him, Jason signaled the barwoman for a drink.

When Bonnie turned around to pour him a whiskey, he almost lost his composure in surprise. She winked at him and started to wipe glasses from the bar. Jason realised that her appearance shouldn't be such a surprise. After all, Bonnie had worked a bar in the past and had many connections of her own. Before she joined up with the Firebirds, she'd owned a bar and small smuggling operation in French Louisiana with her brother Jean Paul 'Clyde' Fortescue. After he was shot down, the Firebirds helped Bonnie get her revenge. She never left the Firebirds.

_So that's why she left for Sky Haven early_, thought jason, _so she could assume the role of bartender without raising any suspicion._

Making contact with the Red Skull was a breeze. The man's pockets were empty and he was desperately in need of another drink. Simply buying him a drink was enough to get his mouth running. A few shots of whiskey later he introduced himself as Rattlesnake Jake, one of the Red Skulls most lethal aces. At least he sounded convinced of it himself. Jason doubted very much if the man was even fit to get a plane safely off the ground, let alone survive a dogfight.

An easy afternoon passed away. The Red Skull bragged non-stop about the feats they'd accomplished, in no small part thanks to him of course. Bonnie made sure their glasses were never empty, although Jason found his whiskey to be replaced by cold tea, while Rattlesnake Jake received ample fillings of the toughest, most corrosive moonshine the bar had to offer. There were mechanics around who used the stuff to degrease their engines. Around them the bar was filling up. More ladies of dubious virtue came down to drink with the crews of various pirate gangs. Jason spotted some Redman's Gang members, one or two Killer Moths, even a lone Black Swann came to spend his earnings. The pick up truck in which Jason had rode in, once the only vehicle in the parking lot, was now surrounded by cars of all shapes and sizes. Somebody tugged at his arm.

'Y'see, we don't take crap from nobody,' explained Rattlesnake in his heavy Texas drawl. The booze turned his speech into an almost incomprehensible slur. 'They mess with us, they mess themselves.' The man almost fell from his seat with laughter. He jabbed his elbow in Jason ribs. 'Mess themselves! Ha! Git it? Hee hee. But serious, them guys who double-crossed us? They're gonna be sorry, I can tell you that. Blowin' up our target and then not payin' us, you believe that?'

The phrase 'blowing up' brought Jason's attention back.

'What do you mean?' he asked, making sure to come across with genuine marvel.

'I mean, them guys paid us an advance to raid a zep, supposedly loaded with riches, and in return they wanna share the profits. From us Red Skulls? Ha, thanks for the tip, suckers! Them boys couldn't pour rain out of a boot with a hole in the toe and directions on the heel. At least, that's what we thought. As soon as we got there, the whole damn thing blows up right in our face! Sooner 'r later we'll git the blame and everybody'll come lookin' fer us. But that's ok. They were lookin' for us anyway. But when we came back here to git the rest of our money, them bastards went up in thin air! So now our leader Genghis, he stays as cool as a june bug. He has everybody searching everywhere to find those cheatin' lizards and give 'm a crash parachute course. With the emphasis on 'crash'! And I'm supposed to stay here to see if they show up. As if they'd be that dumb.'

'Mister Jake?' came a rough accented, yet oily voice from behind them. Jason turned to see two familiar faces looking at him. It was Scarface and Muscle Man.

'Yes?' answered Rattlesnake and turned around. His eyes narrowed as a dim memory swam to the surface of the alcohol. 'Say, don't I kno…' The rest was cut short by a vicious right hook from Muscle Man. He sank to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Around them, life in the Cloud Nine bar continued as if nothing happened.

'Then you must be mister Grant, yes?' continued the scarred man. Jason recognized the accent, it was Russian.

'That depends on who's asking,' he replied and took a sip from his surrogate whiskey.

The other man smiled like something that hunts reefs in shadows. There was no expression in the eyes above that smile, as if they were dead glass. Muscle man positioned himself behind Jason.

'We hear much about you. We meet before, have we not?' Scarface continued in his oily voice. He held up his hand to prevent Jason giving an answer he wasn't about to.

'Forgive me, where are manners? First let me introduce. My name Oleg. And my associate here Sergei. No need for details, let us say we are businessmen. You are businessman as well?'

On the surface it looked like Jason was sipping his drink casually, not caring much for the other mans inquiries. On the inside he was feverishly trying to figure out how the hell he could get out of this mess. Both men would undoubtedly be armed and expecting him to try and make a break for it. This Sergei looked too much of a bruiser to be easily knocked to the ground. All he could do for now was to stall them and keep them talking.

'I prefer the term opportunistic entrepreneur,' he answered, 'And I believe I have an idea what you might be after.'

'Do you now?' inquired Oleg, smiling as if a little kid was trying to sell him the Empire State building.

'It's the briefcase, right?' continued Jason, 'That's what you were after on the Pacifica Princess. You figured out, as I have, that you came back with the wrong one. So there's really no need for any hassle. We'll just trade briefcases and go our own merry way. How about that?'

'Oh, I am afraid is not so simple, mister Grant,' replied Oleg without losing his smile. 'Not so simple at all.'

As if I'm surprised, thought Jason. There was no way guys like Oleg would give up a clean fifty thousand dollars once they'd laid their hands on it.

'You see, mister Grant, that money is used for very good cause. One might even say is noble cause. It is now used for greater good of glorious Communist Party. You are very lucky not to have stood in its way. I am sure that you are firm believer in communist ways, taking so much interest in our zeppelins. I think you want assist us very much.'

_In your dreams pal!_ came to Jason's mind, but instead he said: 'What did you have in mind?'

'I am glad you ask!' replied Oleg delighted, 'Very glad indeed. You see, money is very useful to us, but briefcase even more. If you be so kind to escort us to your plane, then you radio your comrades to bring down briefcase. We take it from you and will not bother you more.'

Behind him, Jason heard Sergei crack his knuckles and say: 'Oleg, mozhem my pojti nazad k _Mat'Rossiya_? Ya hochu slushat' k psalmam.'

'Bezmolviye, vy okolpachivayete!!' snarled his comrade, 'Ili ya obespechu vy budete poslany k gulag dl'a ostal'noyev vashej zhizni!'

The beefy thug cringed at the other man's words. He quickly shuffled back, looking hurt.

'Now, back to business,' continued Oleg, his face returning to the perfect expression of benevolence again. 'What do you say, mister Grant?'

'I suppose it's an offer I can't refuse,' he answered, smiling weakly to pretend he hadn't understood the bigger Russian. He checked the bar, but Antoinette was nowhere to be seen, so she was probably safe at least. Leaving his drink for what it was, he got up and strolled out of the bar as if he didn't have care in the world. Meanwhile his eyes were searching like mad for an opportunity to flee. The situation was worse then he thought possible. They also knew that the Damocles was their former zep, something the Russians wouldn't leave alone until they had their revenge. But he now knew something that could get help them their money back. It was crucial that he got away. From the corner of his eyes he saw Oleg place his right hand inside his jacket and resting it on something as they followed him out the bar.

In front of him were the various other pirates, drinking, gambling, harassing the working girls. The dim lighting and heavy cigarette smoke obscured his view. Along with the cheerful music came a noise from the outside of a plane's engine tormented to its limits. _Probably just another stuntflying challenge, ignore it,_ thought Jason. There was no escape. They would reach the parking lot soon and there was nothing to stop the two goons walking behind him. The roar of the airplane outside grew louder; it was almost to the point where you couldn't hear what you were saying. It couldn't concern Jason, he was guessing if he could jump behind a car and crawl to safety. Catching a bullet before he was halfway was more likely.

The noise was starting to get painful. Suddenly the light coming in from the entrance became obscured as an airplane flew right inside the whorehouse. The screaming engine ripped the air to shreds in the enclosed space of the old zeppelin hull. The pilot barely managed to wrestle the nose of the plane up and over the parked cars. The earsplitting howl and propwash of the aircraft knocked everybody over who wasn't already fleeing for their lives in a blind panic. Jason saw it was a Brigand, painted in all too familiar colors, flashing overhead and disappearing behind the Cloud Nine bar. Only Walter would try to pull a stunt as insane as this. Without hesitation, Jason spun around on one foot and kicked Sergei in the stomach with all the strength he had in him. Oleg had his hands over his ears. Before he could reach for his gun, he caught an uppercut to his chin and reeled over.

'So long boys, maybe some other time,' he called out over his shoulder as he made a break for it. While Scalpalot exited the Brothel Buzz through the back exit, smashing the Cloud Nine Bar's neon sign with his wingtip as he did so, Jason ran onto the parking lot. A sleek Auburn Speedster just pulled in. The driver in his fancy clothes still cowered from the plane that had passed only inches above his head. Jason simply dragged him out of the open car, jumped in and hit the gas. With tires screeching, the fancy sports car shot forward instantly. Jason turned it around and raced out of the Brothel Buzz, into the fresh afternoon air. It would only take a few minutes before he'd reach the landing strip.

Pine trees flashed past him as he gunned the engine of the Speedster along the mountain road. The dry crack of distant gunfire resounded behind him and something very hot buzzed past his ear, shattering the windscreen. Two of its brethren smashed into the trunk of the car. In his rearview mirror he saw the two Russians running out after him. Oleg seemed to be talking into a radio, while Sergei fired another salvo. Before they disappeared out of sight, Jason's hart sank as he heard the trademark whup-whup sound of autogyro's. Two unmarked Hoplites descended from the sky and landed next to the Brothel Buzz. Oleg and Sergei each got into an armored aerocar and took off again within an instant.

Gaining on him with agonizing ease, the planes got on his six o'clock and started a dive to strafe the car. Jason watched them come down like a pair of hungry buzzards. Deliberately waiting until he heard two pairs of .30 caliber guns open up, Jason jerked the car to the left and onto a deserted back road. Four trails of bullets, whipping up dirt from the road, sped towards him and miss him by mere inches. The car skidded violently. It nearly slid off the side of the road, knocking over the road sign marking it as a dead end. He was on a ridge now, going up. The woods lined the side of the road, leaving no room to maneuver. The Hoplites arced around in a tight formation as they circled around to cut him off. Dread sank into Jason's gut. There was nowhere to go. He was going too fast to stop, he couldn't swerve to avoid and within a few hundred yards the road would end in a deadly ravine. Oh crap, he thought, this is it. No escape for me this time. Closing his eyes, he awaited the sound of the guns.

Strangely, the sound was heavier then before. Even more strange, it came from behind. Jason opened his eyes to see two streaks of tracer ammo shoot overhead. The Hoplites broke formation sharply to avoid the oncoming hailstorm of bullets. Again the roar of a radial engine filled the air. A chrome spinner appeared in Jason's rearview mirror, set like a pearl in the black of _Lil' Bastard_'s engine, the personal Fairchild F6 Brigand of Scalpalot. Dancing and twirling like a feather in a whirlwind was a rope ladder dangling beneath its fuselage. In front of him, the end of the road came into view, a spectacular drop of more then 500 feet onto solid rock.

Having only one chance to rescue Jason, Walter flew his plane as precise as he could, overtaking the slower Auburn without swerving. Yet he was going too fast. The Brigand was designed for fast combat aerobatics, not straight level slow and low. He would have to pass over the car with considerable speed to remain airborne. The edge of the ravine was now only a hundred feet away. Below the deafening drone of the plane and the yanking propwash, Jason floored the gas and threw his hands in the air. There was a gust of wind and the rope ladder fluttered away right before he could reach it. The ground ended.

A slight rise in the road and the high speed launched the car through thin air. As if the world slowed down, Jason's mind became as clear as crystal and as fast as lightning. In a last ditch effort, he climbed onto his seat and jumped. He reached for the rope ladder with one hand as it swayed back and forth. The last rung suddenly came up to his hand and Jason grabbed hold for dear life. Instead of being lifted up, he saw the sleek car fall away beneath him. It flew another good fifty feet through the air before it nosed down and dove straight into the gorge. The valleys of Sky Haven thundered with the sound of the explosion.

Even hanging from a rope ladder at five hundred feet and rising, Jazz couldn't help regretting the sacrifice of such a fine car. Until he spotted the two Russian Hoplites from the corner of his eyes. They circled around them, trying once again to close in from behind. Wasting no more time, he climbed up the ladder, through the access hatch and into the cramped space of the rear turret. Scalpalot's cheery voice greeted him.

'Good afternoon there, laddie! Hope ye don't mind I don't shake hands right now, I'm a wee busy at the moment.' The Lil' Bastard lurched to her upper left as Scalpalot twisted her into a battle turn, both turning and climbing at the same time. There was an unnerving whine of bullets zipping past them.

'We got a call from Bonnie saying you was in need of some assistance! And I…err…just happened t' be in the neighborhood. Seems like ye picked on some really bad tempered folk there. Those Russians're right nasty bastards!'

'For once I'm glad you've strayed from the _Damocles_, ' Jazz called back. 'Now, if you don't mind getting us the hell out of here, I'd be much obliged!'

'Aye, aye, cap'n, we'll do!. You just keep them off our tail.'

After buckling up in the rear turret, Jazz grabbed the .30 caliber gun and took aim. Hoplites were notorious opponents. Even though they were weakly armored, their agility and rate of turning made them near impossible to hit. Fortunately, a rear turret evened things up a bit. As Scalpalot zoomed in on one of the autogyros, Jazz saw the other creeping up from below. He hammered away at it with the machinegun, but it stayed out of range. Suddenly a bright flash lit up the world and a thundering boom made the airplane jolt.

'It's no good!' yelled Jazz through the intercom. 'He won't get near us and he's using rockets.'

The radio crackled and Sergei's voice came through.

'Give up, mister Grant. You have no chance, yes? We are superior pilots of glorious Red Army!'

'All that and modest too!' answered Scalpalot, 'Let's see if the lad can play a game o' follow the leader like a good little communist. Let's hit the deck!'

The ground disappeared and nothing but late afternoon sky filled Jazz' little windows. It felt as if his stomach was trying to escape through his throat. The lake in the center of Sky Haven came into view from above, followed by the colossal stone arch of Archie's Loop shooting by as the _Lil' Bastard_ made an inverted pass through it. The trailing Hoplite had to drop down steep and follow them in order not to lose its prey. In doing so, it also brought itself right in the sights of Jazz' .30 cal. He opened up on the other aircraft, steadying the jittering machine gun as best he could. As Ford never had the intention for the Hoplite to be a military fighter, it was equipped with only inferior armor. Bullet holes appeared in its engine cowling, fuselage and wing pylons. Now the world started to spin around like crazy and the entire railroad bridge came around. They zoomed through the main trestles with only a few feet to spare, but the Russian wasn't quick enough. It rammed a trestle with its lower fuselage and instantly caught fire. A second before the plane exploded into a million pieces two parachutes opened up out from the black acrid smoke bellowing out only.

'One down, one to go!' Jazz called into the intercom. 'Finish off the remainder and head back to the _Damocles_.'

Scalpalot radioed his consent and mercilessly pulled back on the stick, but not before a lead hailstorm rattled the fuselage and right wing. Jazz sighed with gratitude for Scalpalot to have extra armor on his bird. The bullets bounced off the reinforced aluminum, only scratching the paint. yet that was enough to get the pirate angry. G-forces pulled from all sides as the _Lil' Bastard_ arced through a series of barrel rolls to get behind the second Hoplite. It tried to escape by diving into one of the many narrow mountain passes around Sky Haven. It turned sharply through Hobson's Arch. Scalpalot steered his Brigand into a death defying Hammerhead by yanking back on the stick and then stomping down on the rudder. Like an eagle dropping from the sky, the nimble little fighter dove towards the ground with the unsuspecting autogyro dead in it's sights. With a mere pull on the trigger, the twin United Munitions .40 calibers spewed lethal fire.

The Russian had nowhere to go. His plane was caught in a rain of bullets. It chewed through the armor and tore the aircraft apart. By the time they were forced to pull out of their dive, the Hoplite was already engulfed in flames. Another pair of parachutes bloomed in the air as the plane smashed into the ground, trailing thick smoke.

'Looks like the last of those wankers,' cheered Scalpalot. 'I'm requesting a docking clearance with the _Damocles_, cap'n. She'll be hovering high o'er the lake.'

They rose up through the sky until the earth was nothing but a green-brown blur far below them. High above them the sun still cast its rays over a sea of pristine whiteness. A few miles to their left, the floating bulk of the _Damocles _hung between towering cumulus clouds, like whale hiding in the reef. Cutting across the immaculate clouds, the _Lil' Bastard_ headed for her perch.


	6. Chapter 6 The New recruit

**Chapter 6 The New Recruit**

As soon as Walt and Jason climbed out of the _Lil' Bastard_ and into the shadowy launch bay, the rest of the crew immediately cornered them to find out what happened.

'It was the Bolsheviks allright,' Jason told them, 'but that's not even the weirdest of it all. The whole thing was some kind of set up. A trap of some sorts and damned if I know for what. Or for whom.'

At the news of the money being in the hands of the Bolsheviks, a collective moan went through the crowd.

'Now how are we gonna get our money back? Those Russians could be anywhere by now. We'll never find then again,' said Marty, pounding his fist into his palm in frustration.

'No, not everywhere,' emphasized Jason, 'North America is not a friendly place for a Russian to be these days. Hell, even Alaska is trying to get rid of them. But when they spoke Russian to eachother, I heard one of those goons say he wanted to go back to listen to the psalm singing. Now, there's only one place around here where a Bolshevik can hear such a thing without being shot out of the sky on sight. In the People's Collective.'

'What?' said Patrick, 'But those Collective fanatics recently severed all ties with the Soviets. They didn't want anything to do with atheïsts.'

'That may be, but they also have only one half-decent militia, the Dustbusters, and even they are seriously ill-equipped. Anyone with a plane and a gun can fly right in and do whatever he wants. The People's Collective Air Force isn't capable of defending their own borders, not by a long shot. I wouldn't be surprised to see them strike a secret deal with the Russians. Hiding them in return for some extra protection.'

'But what are the Russians doing here in the first place? That's what I'd like to know,' asked Nora, her temper getting the best of her.

'I don't know and frankly I don't give a damn. All I can say is that we're going to get our money back and kick some communist butt while we're at it.'

'Easier said then done,' said Patrick gravely, 'I had me a nice girl once, grew up in the People's Collective, before she managed to get away. They're strange folk over there. Basically not bad, just…fanatical, you know? They get kind of carried away with their whole saviour and no property thing. It could be difficult to get information from them.'

'Difficult?' said Jason, 'Or impossible?'

Patrick shook his head.

'That girl, did she have any friends back home?'

Patrick nodded, then smiled his infamous smile. It was enough for Jason to know.

'Ok, go and see what you can do. Meanwhile, we're setting course for the People's Collective.'

After giving instructions to the bridge to set a course eastwards, Jason headed towards the corridor leading to his cabin. He was stopped by Antoinette.

'Wait a minute, Jason. We have another issue,' she said.

'Another issue?'

'Yes, the new recruit.'

'What new recruit? What are you talking about?'

The femme fatale of the Firebirds said nothing, but turned around and walked to the back of the assembled crowd. She took one of the crew by the arm and hauled her up front. At least, Jason thought it was one of the crew. The Russians were known to have mixed crews on their combat zeppelins, unlike the Americans, but Jason couln't remember any woman of them on board the _Damocles_. As they got closer he saw she wasn't dressed as one of their own. She was dressed in a brand new aviators jacket, khaki pants and shiny boots. The woman kept her face down, but Jason recognized her long before she stood before him.

'_Alicia?!_'

The young woman looked up defiantly.

'Hello Jason,' she said casually, her reddening cheeks betraying her, 'I told you I wanted to stay.'

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping this was some sort of weird waking dream.

'Alicia, what are you doing here?'

'I came back to join the Firebirds. I told my father I wasn't his darling little girl anymore. I want to become a pirate of the skies, like you all. Just like you showed me.'

It didn't happen often Jason didn't know what to say. The best he could do was to play it cool for the moment. What on earth was he to do with Alicia Vanderlubsen, spoiled rich kid, wanting to become a pirate? Well, she did have the fire in her. She may have been spoiled, but she was never a brat. And he had to admit she had a certain knack for flying. Somewhere, deep down, he actually liked the idea of having her back on board. Even though she had no idea what she was getting herself into, it had been fun having her around. He found himself to be enjoying her company more then he was ready to admit. Still, it was asking for trouble.

'How did you get here anyway?' he asked, searching for a way to deal with the situation.

Antoinette pointed to something behind him. He turned around. A sleek MC2 Raven hung from an arrestor hook at the far end of the launch bay, fully loaded and every bit as shiny and new as Alicia's aviator clothes. It wasn't even named yet.

'Nice,' he said and turned back to Alicia, 'Where did you get it?'

'I had a trust fund. When I returned, they finally let me access it. I bought the best plane I could find and went looking for you. I went to the place where every pirate visits sooner or later, Sky Haven and asked around. Finally a friend of Antoinette got me into radio contact with her.'

'Antoinette?!' Jason eyes went wide. She stood calmly beside Alicia and flicked her long hair back as if everything was perfectly in order.

'I thought she deserved a fair chance,' she said smoothly, 'Pursueing what she wants like that? I admire that in any woman. It was my duty to help her.'

Jason didn't know what to make of it. Only Antoinette could so casually bypass his authority. She was also the only one who nobody could get mad at somehow. He had to make a decision, but he figured that, although he might be the leader of the Firebirds, they probably had something to say about it too. Mabey they would be so against it he wouldn't have to deal with it himself. Maybe he could just tell her that; Sorry, this isn't going to work. Any new addition to the team must be supported by that same team. Really sorry, better to go back home. See ya.

'What do you guys think?' he asked the Firebirds.

To his surprise, there was no immediate dismissal. A few of them shuffled their feet, a few others looked at the ceiling, there was a neutral sort of grumbling.

'Well,' started Walter, 'it's not like the lass is _bad_ news. I mean, if she really wants t' join us.'

'Yeah, personally, I always welcome more women on the team,' Patrick grinned.

The twins came to stand by her side, even Marty seemed reluctant to turn her away.

'Usually, joining a pirate crew is by invitation only,' Jason smiled, 'I guess we'll have to make an exception for you.'

Alicia screamed with joy and jumped to wrap herself around him. The crew cheered and took turns to congratulate and hug her as soon as she let go of Jason.

'Oh this is great!' she exalted, 'I was so scared you'd turn me away again. Now I'm a real pirate! I can't believe it! So when's our first mission?'

.

.

An hour later, a seething Alicia stood by a viewport, looking out and cursing under her breath. In the distance, she could still make out the silhouettes of five combat planes flying east. Behind her, Marty lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

'Stuck with me, huh?' he said, not completely succeeding in hiding his smile.

'But why?' she asked him, 'I have my own plane and everything! Look, I even have one of those stupid leather caps.'

Marty chuckled, 'Girl, you bought your plane. That's like a disgrace to a pirate. You'll have to earn your plane by stealing enough. Come on, you've got a lot to learn before you can become a real pirate and you can do so by helping me tend to this flying bucket of bolts.'

Sighing, her anger now abating into a dull acceptance, Alicia turned to follow the big man into the interior of the zeppelin.


	7. Chapter 7 A Tumult In The Clouds

**Chapter 7 A Tumult In The Clouds**

A gentle breeze rippled the endless corn fields of the People's Collective. The golden sea of agriculture dominated the landscape of the poor but hardworking nation in de the middle of the ruins of the former United States of America. A cristal clear blue sky spanned the world and the early morning sun added to the golden glow.

Chugging diligent through the peaceful surroundings was the _Labour Express_, adorned with the maroon flags of the Collective. Spewing a billowing cloud of steam, the powerful black locomotive was about to cross the Flint Hills towards Topeka, while pulling five cars containing the entire entourage of the leader of the People's Collective.

Unknown to anybody on board, a group of aircraft circled high above like a flock of metal vultures. With the _Damocles_ at a safe distance, the Firebirds had gone all out for the mission. Flying among the group were two planes looking as new as the day they rolled off the assembly line. One was Wicked's P2 Warhawk, it's three engines humming low and menacing. The paintjob sported nose art of a little winged cherub holding a .50 caliber machine gun with the name _Heaven Sent_ beneath it. On her wing flew Wild with her twin hulled Kestrel dubbed _Special Delivery_. Both warbirds were heavily armed and ready for action. To cover the heavy's, Jazz had ordered Scalpalot and Undertaker to fly cover with him.

They were waiting for the train to reach the hills before going in. It would give them much needed cover for the AA guns on the train and was vital to their plan. With the hills still miles away, Undertaker looked out of his cockpit onto the golden lands of corn.

'Yep, defenitely ain't Kansas anymore, Toto.'

'Keep quiet! We're supposed to keep radio silence,' said one of the girls.

'That really isn't necessary,' came another.

'Who said that?' demanded Jazz, 'There's good reason to keep radio silence. What if the Dustbusters picked it up?'

'Like I said, it really isn't necessary,' came the voice again.

Jazz turned his head around so fast, he nearly twisted his neck. Throught the haze of his pusher propellor, he spotted an entire squadron of the Collective's air corps, the Dusters, closing in on their six o'clock position.

'Easter, what a surprise,' greeted the pirate through gritted teeth. 'You still credit your callsign, comrade. I never figured you to be able to sneak up on us.'

'Aww, so sorry to hurt your pride, Jazz,' came the taunting reply. Comrade captain Jonathan 'Easter' Whittaker was known for his unconventional solutions to make up for the poor performance of the Marquette PR-1 Defender, the only available fighter plane to the People's Collective. They gave him his callsign, because he held more surprises then an Easter basket.

'Now, if you'll kindly follow your escort to the border and don't return, we'd be mighty grateful.'

Jason chuckled. 'I'm sorry, but that's a big no can do. You see, we have business here and I'm afraid we don't let something trivial like the law stand in our way.'

'That your final answer?'

''Fraid so.'

'All right, you asked for it.'

Easter pressed down on the firing button of his 30. machine guns, but Jazz already yanked back at the stick. As the _Shady Lady_ rose up into the sky, a few rounds managed to scrape her tail. Those were a calculated risk made in a blink of an eye. Jason knew his Devastator was a superior climber and the Defender's light ammunition wouldn't do any major damage. The rest of his crew got the message as well and broke formation, scattering in every direction to confuse their enemy.

'After them!' commanded Easter his wing.

Checking his mirror, Jazz saw him climbing after him. The ace was certainly worthy of his title. Not only was he an excellent flier, he had also drilled his wing in the art of dogfighting. None of his pilots was without a wingman. The Defender's guns were almost pointing towards him again, making him a target. He let the _Shady Lady_ roll over her right side and into diving battle turn. Arcing around, Jason tried to get behind the trailing Defender.

Yet Easter was smart. He twisted his stick and made a gut wrenching turn around, using the only advantage he had, maneuverability. He came around and prepared to fire. There was nothing but empty air in front of him.

Jazz had outsmarted him. Faking a maneuvre to get behind Easter, he instead swung around and got behind another Dustbuster who was trying to shoot Wicked. Two .40's and two .50's opened up on the frail little fighter and turned it into airborne wreckage, soon to be reunited with the ground.

'Another score for Newton's Law, thanks!' called Wicked.

'Damn you, Jazz!' spewed Easter, 'You won't get away with this!'

'On the contrary, comrade, I already am. Look around you.'

Although the Dustbusters were giving it all they had, they didn't stand a chance against the Firebirds. Both Undertaker and Cheesehead had scored a hit and even Wicked was finishing off a fighter with her much heavier plane. The Dustbusters had gambled on the element of surprise and lost. There were no more wingmen and the Firebirds working together to pick off the remaining militia planes one by one.

Easter tried to reach Jazz again, but his fighter was just too damn slow as the pirate already downed another of his squadron mates. Within minutes, the lieutenant found himself to be the only law left in the sky.

'You may have won this one, Jazz, but as long as I'm airborne I'll fight you! If I have but one bullet left, I'll get you! Even if I have to get out and pu-'

The rest was lost in static as Easters plane tumbled back to the earth, riddled with bullet holes. A parachute unfolded barely high enough to be safe.

'Right, that should keep 'm in the dark for a while,' said Jazz over the radio, 'Enough target practise, let's get to business.'

Each plane broke off and dove down towards the endless sea of corn. Some distance away, the _Labour Express_ just entered the hills, its smoke stack marking its exact location with a beautiful plume of white smoke and steam.


	8. Chapter 8 More Equal Then Others

**Chapter 8 More Equal Then Others**

Nobody could be called a more devout communist than the leader of the People's Collective. This was mainly because if anybody would call anybody else a more devout communist, they would never be heard of again. Yet councilor Samuel Morrow did regard all his subjects as one and saw to it that they were treated in the same way. Each and every one of them had a right to all the basic necessities of life with no distinction in property or class. No possessions, just their common love for the Lord. Even now, as he was working on his third five-year plan that month, he thought of all of them as equal. It was simply that he regarded himself not so equal to others.

Surely no one could think anything of the fact that everyone of his thirty staff members had to share a coach half the size of his presidential one. Did not the Book of Proverbs itself say: "A wise man is strong; And a man of knowledge increases power."?

So councilor Morrow sipped his highly illegal whiskey behind his mahogany desk and pondered. Most pressing was the question of protecting the People's Collective against the ever more frequent raids from the I.S.A. It was a public secret that the industrial capitalists were afraid that the disease of communism, as they saw it, would spread into their factories. So the Industrial States of America secretly harboured the dreaded Red Skull pirates, who turned bolder by the day in their pillaging of poor faithful farmers who worked their fingers to the bone. Morrow nibbled a piece of toast laden with caviar, while he thought about this.

His personal train had to have special features, of course. There were enemies within as well as outside the Collective's borders. The engine had a special ram mounted that could smash through any barrier. Behind the engine, yet in front of his personal coach was an armored carriage with anti-aircraft guns and another one behind him. Then a coach carrying his personal security troops and at the back end, the cramped wooden boxcar with his staff. The presidential coach itself was also armored and was equipped with an air filtration device. It was even stocked with a food and drink supply that could sustain him for days if necessary. So what if his supply consisted mainly of whiskey, champagne, caviar and foie gras? Once he had joked to himself that all of Armageddon could break loose around the train car without him being in harm's way. It didn't get many laughs.

With the bullet proof shutters drawn in front of the windows because of the strong afternoon sun and boring cornfields, the councilor couldn't see anything happening outside. The clackety-clack of the wheels on their metal tracks drowned out any sounds. When he felt the floor tilt slightly this way and that, Morrow knew they were travelling through the Flint Hills. While considering whether or not to open the shutters and enjoy a welcome change of scenery, a deafening explosion rocked the train violently and threw him sprawling to the floor. Another explosion followed and another. Amidst the thundering crashes came the staccato stuttering of heavy machine gunfire, strung together with the swell and ebb of roaring engines. Bullets rapped like a hailstorm from Hell across the roof, directly followed by more explosions. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was quiet again.

Councilor Morrow pulled himself up and leaned on his massive desk. What in the Lord's name had happened? Who had attacked him? Why wasn't anybody shooting back? Before any answers could come up he felt…a change. He couldn't determine what it exactly was, but it wasn't good. A moment later realisation dawned on him with gut wrenching horror. His coach had slowly started to roll backwards.

Faster and faster the coach rolled down the hill. Shocks and shudders indicated turns and all the while the councilor still couldn't see where he was going. A particular sharp jolt to the left made him sure he was about to tip over when screeching sounds came up from under the floor. Morrow was flung against the teak wainscoting as below him the brakes locked and threw up sparks along the rails until the coach finally juddered to a halt. It felt like an eternity in purgatory before he dared to stand up again. Morrow didn't know what to do.

There was a polite knock at the metal reinforced door, closely followed by an explosion that ripped it right out of its frame. More smoke billowed around in the already hazy interior. Rough hands closed around the arms of the coughing and choking leader of the People's Collective and dragged him resolutely outside.

Once outside, the fresh air cleaned his burning lungs and tearing eyes quickly. As his vision cleared, he found himself standing on an old, weed-covered platform, his precious coach right in front of him. For a moment he thought that Armageddon actually had broken loose around it, for it was scorched and battered and smoke was pouring out of its mangled door frame. Both ends had sustained severe impact damage from rocket fire and the roof had actually rippled under heavy caliber gunfire. There were blast marks everywhere.

Somebody cleared his throat behind, as politely as the knocking on his door had been. Samuel Morrow straightened his back and raised his chin before turning around. If his life was to end here, he would not grant his attackers the satisfaction of him begging them.


	9. Chapter 9 A Pirate's Parlay

**Chapter 9 A Pirate's Parlay**

The whole operation had gone without flaw. Except for the unplanned warming up session Easter so generously provided, everything went down smooth. _Almost too smooth to be true_, thought Jason as he was sitting on one of the mossy wooden benches that lined the abandoned train station.

The pirate leader watched in leisure as the councilor was hauled out of his treasured coach. From the intelligence that Patrcik had managed to gather, he had a pretty clear picture of how it looked on the inside. It also gave him an even clearer picture of the man standing in front of him. He decided to let him have the first move. Jason enjoyed a moment of silence under the clear blue sky, an easy breeze smelling of crop passed before the other man couldn't stand it any longer.

'Who are you? What do you want? What did you do to my escort?' demanded Morrow, unable to prevent his voice from breaking.

'Ah, straight to the point,' smiled Jason, 'I like that.'

Without answering further, the tall pirate took a hip flask from a pocket of his leather flying jacket and took a swig, letting it burn its way down his throat. He offered the bottle to his guest, who refused.

'You know very well that the People's Collective is a dry state,' said Morrow, '"Don't be drunk with wine, because that will ruin your life. Instead, let the Holy Spirit fill and control you."'

'Come, come now. You're amongst friends here, 'replied Jason and winked, 'We won't tell your little secrets.'

When Morrow persisted to refuse, Jason sighed and put his bottle away.

'Suit yourself, but you're missing out on some great stuff. Blake's Black Label, the best moonshine money can buy. But of course, you already know that.

Very well, I'll answer first, then you answer me. To start with, I'll let you in on a little trade secret of mine: how I managed to get you here.

We owe our success to the twins here mostly; their accuracy is nothing short of perfection. It were their rockets that destroyed the couplings that held your train together without blowing it up in the process.'

For the first time Morrow looked at the people who had dragged him out of his coach. He was surprised to see that both were women and quite good looking ones too. One had long chestnut curls, the other was a straight blonde. They wore a pilot's garb, goggles and all, something the conservative government of the People's Collective firmly disapproved of. A womans place was in her home after all, not in the cockpit. The tallest, the one with the brown hair, had a gun aimed at him. She winked.

'Hi,' she said.

'Mind if I take a peek in your coach, while you're busy anyways?' asked the other frivolously and slipped back inside. Sounds of crashing furniture and shattering crystal soon followed.

'The others,' continued Jason, 'simply covered them by strafing the armored coaches. First we cut the coaches behinds you loose, then yours. After that, we simply let them all roll back down the hill, threw a switch to sidetrack your coach and stopped it here at this abandoned train station. It gave us just enough time to park our planes in the field behind us. And to see us safe, we receive protection from the heavens. Just like you, only slightly more efficient.'

The councilor looked up and saw two combat planes circling around high above them, their engines buzzing like angry bees.

'We should have some time to ourselves before they find you again. That's _if_ they find you again. It's up to you, really,' said Jason, his tone neutral. 'Time to answer my questions. I already know you're harboring Red Russians in the Collective, but I want to know where they are.'

Morrow returned his gaze back to the pirate. He looked miserable.

'You will be punished for this,' he said. 'That train was property of the people.'

'Are the people also loaded with caviar and bourbon?' called Margaret from inside the coach. She made her way outside, her arms full of black labeled bottles and red labeled cans.

'I'll just put this in the trunk, shall I?'

'Care to answer my question, councilor?' asked Jason again, when Margaret was gone.

'"And the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not,"' said Morrow.

'Neither of us has the time to fool around, councilor,' returned Jason, his voice now void of any sympathy or light heartedness. 'Where are those Russians?'

'I do not know what you are talking about. The People's Collective has severed all ties with Russia, as they are atheists. Folk who do not recognize the Lord as their true master are not welcome here. A vision of all property belonging to the people is all we have in common.'

Margaret came back again, this time clutching a steel reinforced case the shape and size of a small treasure chest.

'Look at this,' she said as she dropped the case on the bench next to Jason. It was filled to the brim with unmarked gold bars.

'I guess you were keeping this property on their behalf?' said Jason, 'Well, let me keep on your behalf then. Now, I know what you want from the Russians, but what I can't figure out what it is that they want. Enlighten me, councilor.'

'"Our truth hurts the enemy",' replied Morrow. He eyed the case anxiously, but kept silent.

Jason smiled and shook his head. 'Don't you mean: "Nasha pravda vragu glaza kolet."?'

He got up and stood in front of the smaller man. 'A typical Russian propaganda slogan. You give your secrets away too easily. Didn't you know I speak a bit of Russian? Picked up in China, when fighting the same pesky Bolsheviks you're protecting now. They aren't here for a loaf of bread and some corn on the cob, are they?'

'"For each man's ways are plain to the Lord's sight; all their paths he surveys; By his own iniquities the wicked man will be caught, in the meshes of his own sin he will be held fast; He will die from lack of discipline, through the greatness of his folly he will be lost",' muttered Morrow, a forced sneer cutting across his face.

'Nice quote. Yet if I were granted omnipotence, and millions of years to experiment in, I shouldn't think Man much to boast of as the final result of all my efforts, wicked or otherwise. Now I'll ask you one last time, councilor, for my patience is wearing thin; where are those Russians and what are they doing here?'

The leader of the People's Collective trembled and shook, yet he clung to a last shred of defiance.

'"For he bringeth down them that dwell on high; the lofty city, he layeth it low; he layeth it low, even to the ground; he bringeth it even to the dust."'

'Goddamnit, that does it!' Grabbing Morrow by his collar, Jason lifted him a foot off the ground to meet his eye. The man looked as if he was about to lose control of his bladder. They were interrupted by crackling static from a radio before Jason could continue. It followed with a panicky voice yelling half English, half Russian. Nora slung the bulky portable radio from her back and talked excitedly into it.

'We're in trouble, Jason,' she said, the color draining out of her face. 'The _Damocles_ is under attack! It's the Bolsheviks!'

As if that wasn't bad enough news, Margaret barely stifled a scream, pointing towards the distant hills. A contingent of soldiers on foot crested the summit and, seeing their leader in the distance, doubled their speed.

The leader of the Firebirds stared at them for only an instant before dropping Morrow like a sack of potatoes. The man wobbled and fell onto his hands and knees.

'To your planes!' shouted Jason, 'Radio the rest and get your asses back to the _Damocles_!'

The twins ran like mad towards the field where their planes stood waiting. When Jason turned to follow them, Morrow grabbed his trouser leg. He was on his scraped knees and his eyes were on the verge of tears.

'You're - you're not going to kill me?' he gasped.

'Never had the intention, dear fellow, but don't tempt me,' said Jason as he used his other foot to boot the man away from him. '"I'm sorry to see you here, but if you'd have fought like a man you needn't run like a dog." And that's a pirate quote.'

As Jason ran for his own plane, he heard Morrow screaming after him, crazed with panicky relief.

'"Then the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the alter, and hurled it on the Earth! And there came peals of thunder! Rumblings! Flashes of lightening! And an earthquake!"'

The ominous words hung in his head for a short time, but soon ebbed away, drowned out by the torrential howl of Devastator's engine. The _Shady Lady_ roared off the ground and streaked towards whatever peril the _Damocles_ was in.


	10. Chapter 10 Mother Russia

**Chapter 10 Mother Russia**

Usually a plane and a clear sky was all it took to let Jazz shake off all the troubles and worries of his life. This time each second passed in agony as the _Shady Lady_ streaked through the clouds as fast as she possibly could. Not even the staggering one thousand, four hundred and fifty eight horsepower of the Tornado G450 engine droning behind him could ever be enough now. He had passed the twins shortly after take off, as their birds weren't built for speed. After a few minutes he caught up with Scalpalot and Undertaker, their planes being only slightly slower as his Devastator.

The Firebirds flew in silence interrupted only by the frantic radio transmissions from Marty. Jason had left the big Dutchman in charge of the _Damocles_ while away on his mission, figuring the man had some easy time to fill with routine maintenance and his inventions. Instead they had to listen to desperate calls for help and being unable to do anything about it. We were so careful not to be seen! he thought while gripping the stick until his knuckles went white. How the hell did they find us?!

So far, all they knew was that they were under attack from hordes upon hordes of Russian fighters, all dark green with bright red trimmings, sporting their red star on the wings and fuselage. The _Damocles_ didn't stand a chance to outrun them and all they could do was to fend for themselves with the anti-aircraft turrets as best they could until help finally arrived. Jason estimated it would still be another minute or two before they reached the zeppelin. He grimaced, a lot could happen in two minutes. Like the downing of a zep.

'It's no good! They're everywhere! We're trying to move to a higher altitude, but…'

Static crackled along the airwaves. Jason tried to refrain himself from pounding his radio panel, before Marty came back on.

'We sustained a direct hit to the number two gas bag. It's gone. And we lost about five engines now, it'll take ages to climb.'

'Damnit, Marty, hang on! We won't be long now. Can you see where they're coming from?' Jazz called back.

'We think from – _AAAAARGH!_ - Sorry about that, they just strafed the bridge and a torpedo missed us by a hair. We think they're coming from the cover of a large – LOOK OUT!- a large cloud formation, south-west of our position.'

'Okay, just head straight the other way as fast as you can.'

'I'm giving it all she's got, captain. If I push her any harder she's gonna blow!'

Before he could respond, they arrived. What Jazz saw nearly made him lose hope. Against a beautiful backdrop of cotton clouds and golden seas of corn, the _Damocles_, trailing thick black clouds of smoke, was trying to climb without much success. Another one of her gas bags imploded in a enormous ball of fire, exposing her fragile inner structures and Jazz could see right through her frame. It was what combat pilots called a real furball. Fiery streams and blooming explosions surrounded the zeppelin as both friend and foe released every weapon they commanded at each other.

Jazz led his small wing to a position above the fray and adressed them shortly.

'Listen up, we have to get the _Damocles_ to safety. Russian tactics dictate that they don't have any multirole craft. So go for the heavy's, they're the only ones carrying aerial torpedoes. Forget the fighters. There's too much of them to take on individually anyway. We stick together, standard wedge formation, cover eachothers butts and let the AA turrets deal with the fighters. Hold on long enough for the twins to join us, we'll need their guns. We'll wipe them out of the skies and then we can concentrate on finding out where they came from. All right, ready? Let's take these bastards down!'

They dove towards the battle with the sun in their backs. In the spare second they had before all hell broke loose, Jazz knew that despite his confidence speech, they had as much chance as a cow trying to fly. As the vision of the _Damocles_ swelled in his canopy, he could clearly see the dozens of combat plane circling her. They looked like American planes, but Jazz knew they were but cheap copies, hastily modelled after a proven concept to keep up with demand. Yet they all carried serious enough armament and fired volley after volley at the Damocles' engines and turrets. As he watched, another engine blew apart in a cloud of fire and shrapnel.

And then they were in the middle of it. Bullets and rockets flying everywhere, explosions thundering around them, momentarily drowning out the rumbling engine noise. Pulling back to a shallow dive, they cut straight across the starboard side of the zeppelin. Lances of white-hot fire shot forward as they fired off their armor piercing rockets. They managed to pick off four planes on their first run, all lumbering Ilyushins looking exactly like the P2 Warhawk. Long before the MiG-1's and Yakovlev-4's, poor replica's of Furies and Devastators, could get behind them, they swooped underneath the crippled zeppelin and wrestled their craft up into a battle turn. Out of his cramped cockpit, Jazz could see the crew of the heavily damaged zeppelin throwing out ballast. Anything heavy and not bolted down was chucked out to keep her airborne.

Still in perfect formation, they took out two more, letting the chaos of the furball work in their advantage. The Russians had trouble finding their attackers among the dozens of fellow planes, while Jazz and his gang had but to line up their sights to score a hit. There were less planes on the _Damocles_' port side and the only heavy fighters were on a straight and level attack run coming towards them. This was a problem. The heavy's outgunned them and a head on attack would be suicide. Jason counted twelve .60 caliber autocannons easily.

'Go low guys,' Jazz instructed, 'Looks like they haven't seen us yet. Get underneath and go for the soft spots.'

Pushing against the stick, Jazz, Undertaker and Scalpalot nosed down and picked up airspeed. Two hundred feet lower they pulled up again, their gunsights climbing towards the enemy planes. As if on cue, they fired their rockets simultaneously. The right wing of one of the Ilyushins disintegrated in a cloud of debris. One second the plane rose up, the next it rolled over its right side and into an uncontrollable spin. Another plane, a Lavochkin-2 looking like a William & Colt Peacemaker took a hit in its central engine nacelle and broke apart in mid-air. Levelling out of his climb and into a turn, Jazz spotted the one plane that got away and his breath stopped cold in his throat. To his horror, he saw a grey plume of smoke; it trailed an aerial torpedo heading straight for the _Damocles_.

Even though she kept the armored hatches covering her broadside cannons closed, another direct hit would be fatal. He thumbed the radio to warn them, but already knew it would be too late. A shadow flitted across the noon sun as the shark-like rocket shot across the sky.

The explosion of the torpedo was so fierce, the glare of the light stabbed his eyes. Then the screaming began.

A fraction of a second Jazz thought the shouts actually sounded happy. Arcing the _Shady Lady_ around, he looked up hesitantly. From the changing perspective, he could now see the black cloud of the explosion drifting a good thirty feet off the starboard side of the zeppelin. Another grey contrail intersected it from above.

'Yeehaw! Starting the party already without us?' hollered a woman's voice over the radio.

'Those Ruski's are in trouble now,' came Undertaker, 'We just got Wicked & Wild!'

'You betcha!,' answered Wild, throwing her menacing Kestrel in a turn, 'And just in time too. Always knew you boys couldn't handle it.'

'Oh yeah? You want to keep scores, Wild?' challenged Scalpalot, 'I bet you we'll shoot down more then you.'

'You're on, buddy!' replied Wicked as she banked hard to intercept another Russian plane, 'Now let's go get those Bolshevik bastards!'

With three agile fighters supplying cover and two heavy's packing a phalanx of machineguns, cannons and rockets, things finally started to look up for the crippled _Damocles_. Against all odds, Marty had managed to raise her a good three hundred feet and she was still pushing away from where ever the Russians had come from. Firefighters put out the big fires in her exposed frame and emergency teams were already patching up the remaining gasbags.

Outside, the five Firebirds ploughed through the Russians. One after another, dark green planes tumbled down as a burning clutter of twisted metal. However, Jazz knew a furball takes its tolls from both sides. When he heard the radio call he so dreaded to receive, he also knew it had been unavoidable.

'I got one on my six! I can't shake him!' radioed Wild in a panic. 'I'm hit! I'm going down!'.

Jazz checked the _Special Delivery_. The right fuselage was a right mess. Peppered with bullet holes and streaking flames out of the engine, it slowly started to roll over. Soon that gentle tumble would be a neck-breaking spin.

'Get clear, Wild,' he answered her, 'You can't do any more good back there.'

'Right, bailing out.' Her voice was more dissapointed then distressed now. 'Just get back at them for me, will ya?'

'Don't worry, little sis, they'll pay,' snarled Wicked, but Wild had already jumped her plane together with her gunner.

'Okay, Firebirds,' said Jazz to keep them focused on their goal, 'Let's mop up the stragglers and check if we're still in a fighting state.'

An eerily familiar voice came across the static of the radio, heavy with a slavic accent.

'I think not. It would be wise to surrender to Red Army, mister Grant.'

'Dear lord, is that my buddy Oleg?' replied Jazz, 'They let you get back in a plane already?'

Banking the _Shady Lady_ around, Jazz looked around and quickly spotted him. A bright red MiG-1, sporting the familiar red star outlined in black, was leading the remaining green planes around the Damocles. All in all, it couldn't be more then half a dozen planes. Jazz checked his gauges; not much fuel left, all rockets gone and about half his munition spent. Looking outside he saw more then a few whisps of greasy smoke coming from several engines of his crew. I'll take those odds anyday! he thought to himself, grinning from ear to ear despite himself. Still, it had been close. The _Damocles_ nearly hadn't made it. Both groups circled around, steadily climbing, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

'You are funny man, mister Grant' said Oleg, 'yet I believe I am, how you say… last one to laugh.'

'Didn't anybody ever tell you it's 'Jazz' whenever I'm up in the air?'

'I am sorry, mister Grant, American callsigns are so… theatrical. Now surrender! If you cooperate, you might get away alive. Else you will be destroyed. Is that simple, yes?'

'Yeah? You and what army? We pretty much wiped your buddies from the sky.'

'My army, mister Grant, my army. The one behind me.'

Craning his neck inside the narrow space of his cockpit, Jazz tried to look beyond the Russians. His jaw dropped.

Set against grey clouds, the Firebirds saw Olegs army approaching. Wave after wave of dark green planes filled the sky. Jazz counted MiGs, Lavochkins, Ilyushins, Yakovlevs, even Tupolevs. Dozens of them, maybe close to a hundred. My God, he thought, it must be an entire wing, made up of at least four whole squadrons

'Where the hell did they come from?!' exclaimed Wicked, 'We scouted the area. There's no way we could have missed an airbase large enough for that!'

'Looks like they came from that small mountain,' said Scalpalot.

'That's no mountain,' said Jazz, 'it's an airship!'

'It's too big to be an airship,' said Undertaker.

The clouds parted as a gargantuan hulk floated forward. It wasn't just big, nor was just impossibly big, it was monstrously big. It looked like an upside down mountain hovering in the air. It was a zeppelin unlike they had ever seen before. It consisted of two main hulls lashed together, each bigger then any other zeppelin ever built. Underneath hung an intricate metal construction the shape and size of an inverted castle. Countless engines pushed it along with great effort. Scores upon scores of turrets cluttered its sides. A double row of broadside hatches was built into its sides. On each of its bows was a red star as big as a house.

'My God,' said Jazz, weakly.

'God has nothing to do with it, mister Grant' said Oleg ecstatically, 'This is the CCCP _Mat'Rossiya_ and now, now you will feel glorious power of Red Army!'

The _Mother Russia_, thought Jazz; and then: We cannot win this. It's impossible. Out loud, he said:

'Okay, Oleg, you win. You can have the damn briefcase. Just let the Firebirds go.'

'Of course, mister Grant. I admire your wise decision. Now tell people on board to stand down and have briefcase ready. We shall board and take back to its rightful place. And do not try anything funny, as you Americans say. You will not live long enough to regret.'

Jazz instructed Marty to comply, ignoring his protests. They had no other choice. Still circling, now well above the _Damocles_ as if she was some sort of neutral grounds, both parties watched as a small bomber, a twin engine Polikarpov, detached itself from the swarm of Russian aircraft and docked swiftly with the Damocles. From the corner of his eyes, Jazz could see the plane being hauled up into the hangar bay.

It seemed like an eternity, but in the end, it dropped out through the launch doors and quickly set course for the _Mat'Rossiya_.

'I just receive call that briefcase is in order,' came Oleg on the radio again, 'Well done, mister Grant. I always think you were businessman after all. Now say goodbye to your friends.'

'What?! You bastard! You said we'd get away alive!'

'No mister Grant, I say you might get away alive. If you ran away when you could, you might have lived. But zeppelin you call _Damocles_ is still our CCCP _Vostok_. We cannot allow it to remain in hands of thieves. The Soviet Army will not stand for it!'

The Russian planes, now filling the sky all around them, swung around to form an attack formation. One single run would be enough for them to finish them off. Even if they'd manage to stave them off, there were enough torpedo carrying planes to blast the _Damocles_ to bits. There was no escape. They were done for.

Suddenly the radio crackled and an authoritive voice came through.

'This is commander Dahl, hailing the Russian invaders. We have you surrounded with four strike zeppelins. Surrender yourselves!'

The Russians hesitated. Jazz craned his neck looking for the unexpected newcomers, but he couldn't see anything. The sky was cloudy, there was no way to see if this strange commander was telling the truth or not. Yet the Russians promptly moved as one and headed back to their bizarre aerial airbase. Olegs's red MiG made a last pass across Jazz' flight path.

'You have no idea how lucky for you, mister Grant. If your friends had not come to rescue, you would be my personal kill. We have what we came for. There is larger plan that must prevail. But we meet again, yes? You have not seen last of us, but we will be last you ever see.'

The MiG banked a hard right to follow his comrades. It was unsettling to see how fast they docked on dozens of arrestor hooks and were hoisted aboard, all the while rising higher and higher. As slow as the titanic airship was in level flight, as swift as she was when climbing.

Soon the battered Firebirds found themselves alone again in the sky. They too docked with their homebase. The _Damocles_ barely managed to stay aloft with the added weight. Inside the launch bay it was pandemonium. Smoke hung everywhere. Soot streaked emergency crews ran to and fro in a barely organized chaos, putting out fires, patching up leaking gasbags and other crewmembers alike and trying to keep the engines they had left in working order. Battle-weary, Jason climbed out of the _Shady Lady_, the last to be hoisted in, and leaned against her with his eyes closed for a moment. _That was too close_, he thought, _Way too close._

The others still stood by their planes, near to exhaustion. Only Nora looked agitated and she zoomed in on him.

'What are we going to do about Margaret?' she demanded to know.

'Relax, she'll be fine,' said Jason, 'Although she'll have to wait a while. Actually, she's probably in less trouble then we are. We have to get the _Damocles_ back into something like working order first and get the hell out of here. She's got a radio, we'll pick her up later.'

Nora did not seem to be satisfied by this answer at all, but before she could object she was rudely pushed aside by a panting Marty. The big man looked like he'd gone through hell. His coverall was torn and scorched in places. A cut ran across his forehead and bled into his right eye. He didn't even seem to notice. He looked genuinely scared.

'They took Alicia!' was all he could say between gasps for air.

'What?!'

'The Russians…when they boarded us…took the briefcase…suddenly pulled machineguns on us…started firing at everything…trying to start a fire…Alicia was there…tried hiding behind some crates…they took her…said something about safe passage…'

'Damnit! Son of a…' shouted Jason and threw his flying goggles to the floor in an outburst of anger. Maddened with frustration, he pounded a girder with his fist.

'We got another problem,' said Patrick flatly from behind them.

'Another? How could we possibly have more problems?!' spewed Jason, striding towards the view port where his crew mate stood.

'Look,' was all the other man said and pointed outside.

Two menacing black zeppelins hung in the air on their port side. A run to the other side of the launch bay revealed two more on their starboard side. A swarm of pitchblack fighters buzzed around them. The intercom system came to live, announcing a message from the newcomers.

'This is commander Dahl, hailing the pirate zeppelin _Damocles_. We have you surrounded with four strike zeppelins. Surrender yourselves!'

'A bit repetitive in their conversation, aren't they?' said Jason with a wan smile. Sometimes he hated to be the guy in charge. He turned to press the microphone button on nearby intercom station and told the radio room to patch him through to commander Dahl.

'This is Jason Grant, leader of the Firebirds and commander of the _Damocles_,' he said, 'We surrender.'

He hung up and looked the rest of his crew in the eye. They stood assembled before him with leaden expressions. He knew each and every one of them as well as he ever would know another man or woman. He was supposed to be their leader and he just surrendered twice in a row. He had lost both Margaret and Alicia. He had failed them.

'I'm sorry guys,' he said, 'We have no choice.'


	11. Chapter 11 Resistance Is Futile

**Chapter 11 Resistance is Futile**

The sudden glare of light hurt Jason's eyes and made him wince for a second before he could force his face back into its regular casual look. It had been almost an hour and Jason was beginning to think the entire interrogation would be in utter darkness, that maybe they developed some new unknown technique. He was relieved the good old bright light in your face routine was still popular with the governments of the former United States of America. And they _were_ government. Jason could smell it. From the near masochistic order and cleanliness of the place to the obeying of commands without question, they had written bureaucracy written all over them. The one thing that worried him was the efficiency of the whole operation. Quick, silent, they did what needed doing and no excuses. And that made them unlike any government agency he had ever encountered.

-/-

The strange zeppelins that had surrounded the _Damocles_ had been the same. Silent, efficient, black. The boarding party had been equally bizarre to match. A black twin-engine passenger aircraft and two flanking sleek black Furies, all unmarked, slid across the sky like ghosts towards them. The larger plane docked with the crippled _Damocles_ and spilling out of her came a group of a dozen men sporting strange automatic weapons. They looked a bit like chrome plated Tommy guns mixed with those bulging alien ray guns from the Amazing Stories magazines the crew was so fond of. All of the men were clad in black coveralls with black combat boots and black sunglasses. There was almost no way to distinguish one from the other. Jason had a feeling this was very much their intention. One of them, seemingly at random, detached himself from the group and spoke in a loud, commanding voice.

'Your zeppelin is hereby confiscated. We shall take command and you will be transferred to holding cells aboard the strike carriers. If you come quietly and calmly, you will not be harmed. Resistance is futile.'

Their captors, or the "Spooks" as Jason now thought of them, had brought hand cuffs shackles. They organized the entire evacuation of the Firebirds as if they had planned and practiced it beforehand. All bound and shackled, they were transported off the _Damocles_ in groups of ten, each group guarded by two men with their weird guns. Jason and his pilots were among the first group of them to be escorted off their flying base. Upon launch, he spotted another black passenger craft trailing the zep, waiting to dock as soon as the first left.

Spying inconspicuously for a chance to seize control, Jason quickly glanced his crew mates doing the same and, one by one, coming to the same conclusion. There was no way out. For the time being, they had no other choice but to obey. Resistance had been futile indeed.

-/-

A gruff voice spoke out of the darkness.

'We know of your involvement, buddy. Might wanna tell us everything now you still have the chance to cooperate. Might look good for you too.' The voice paused, 'Mind you, you'll tell us everything when you don't cooperate as well.'

Jason could hear the smirk in that voice and he strained his ears to learn as much as possible. Slight Chicago accent, male, middle-aged, probably a smoker as well as a drinker, judging by the smell, maybe just a hint of irritation and above all, a bad bluffer. _Geez, what a weak line, _he thought. _Let's see how he responds to the old 'You Got The Wrong Guy' tactic._

'My involvement in what?' he shrugged, 'Come on, the Firebirds are small-time. We got our butts handed to us by those weird Ruski's. We have nothing you need fussing over.'

'We'll be the judge of that. In fact, in here, we can be the judge, the jury and the… executioner.'

Jason didn't like the complete absence of humor in that last comment, but damned if he let up his bravado now. It had been a long journey coming here and he wasn't going to give up that easily.

-/-

The Spook zeppelin had flown for a long, long time. Judging by the size of the zep, the sound of its engines and his watch, Jason estimated they traveled for hundreds of miles before touching down. The only allusion their captors ever made to their destination was that they were heading towards the "Estate".

As they were marched off the strike zeppelin, they found themselves in deserted meadow land dipped with low green hills and completely clear of trees. At gunpoint they headed towards an old and neglected farmhouse. It must have been an impressive example of Mid-Western architecture once, but now it stood wasting away amidst an unruly yard with weeds growing abundant. The one or two remaining glass panes stressed the gaping holes that once were windows. Rotting curtains swayed beyond like mournful ghosts. Peeling dust-white paint revealed bare graying wood. A vine covered barn, its once red paint faded to the color of diseased blood, stood behind the farm with its roof collapsed half way. Was this the dreaded "Estate" they had been heading for all this time? Jason had seen how his crew reacted in the same way he thought. _What a dump!_

-/-

The splash of icy water came out of the black behind the lamp. Jason startled involuntary from the stab of cold in his face.

'TELL US ABOUT THE RUSSIANS!!' roared the voice out of nowhere. There was no mistaking the anger this time.

'What about the Russians!?' Jason sputtered, 'There we were, minding our own business all peacefully and then they just jumped us out of nowhere!'

The blow came from behind him. Something that felt like a jackhammer connected with his jaw and smacked him right over, chair and all.

'Don't get cute with me, son,' the voice continued. 'We've been trailing those damn Commies for months and they don't 'just jump' anybody. What do you know about R.A.D.A.R. systems? You'd better tell us. It's better then losing the ability to, you know, chew your food.'

'R.A.D…what? What the hell are you talking abou-'

Before he could continue, a kick in his ribs knocked the wind out of him. Pain stabbed through his chest. It felt like a rib or two might be cracked.

'I warned you', came the voice, 'I warned you twice! Now we'll teach you the price of pulling our chain.'

-/-

As they had approached the seemingly dilapidated buildings, they saw more details come into focus. The barn's big doors stood wide open, showing thick supporting beams holding the supposedly collapsed roof firmly in place. A score of black cars was parked inside. Amongst the weeds and tall grass, Jason spotted thin wires strung crisscross throughout the yard. Thin metal cylinders with a small lens set in them jutted from the roof, turning this way and that.

_Camouflage, that's all it is,_ he thought, _Tripwires, periscopes, I bet the place is a fortress inside!_

Once inside, nothing but warped floorboards and the depressing smell of mildew welcomed them in. Jason was just about to think he might have been mistaken after all, when a tremor ran through the wood they were standing on. Suddenly the derelict farmhouse rose up around them as the entire floor groaned and creaked and sank away into dark shadows.

When they finally came to a shuddering halt, they were marched into an endless sterile corridor. Naked light bulbs burned behind metal frames, marking their way across the painted floor in a cold bleak light. Stark doors were set in the walls, each of them marked by stenciled words in military style. From the corners of his eyes, Jason saw them passing rooms marked with things like Operations, Communications or Medical.

Their escorts opened up a primitive cellblock for them two flights of stairs lower. Apparently, the Spooks even anticipated large groups of prisoners. The crew was split up into two groups, one male, one female. Each cell, about as big as a baseball court, held no windows, no ventilation grilles and no furniture except a hole in to ground for doing one's private business in full sight. When Patrick tried to sneak into the woman's cell for what he called "their comfort", he was quickly treated to a merciless choke hold and thrown into the men's cell. Yet Jason had been hauled off in another direction, only to be dropped off at a door marked 'Interrogation'.


	12. Chapter 12 Oldest Trick In The Book

**Chapter 12 Oldest Trick In The Book**

The universal smell of basements, powdery and moist at the same time, invaded his nose. A cold concrete floor pressed into the stiff muscles of his back. Along with the return of his senses, Jason Grant felt stabs of pain slice through his body at the tiniest movement. A small crowd was gathered around him.

'Aye cap'n, how are ye feeling?' asked a familiar voice. Though his thoughts were blurry and unfocused, Jason thought he recognized Walter's Irish accent.

'Come on, folks. Stand back, give the man some room. He's beat up pretty badly and we don't have any first aid,' said another that might have been Marty. Jason was touched by his crew's care.

Somebody kicked his foot.

'Wake up, you lazy bum! We have better things to do around here then watch you sleep late!'

A collective gasp went through the crowd as they held their breath in horror.

'Patrick, when we get out of here I'm going to make you walk the plank for that,' groaned Jason, still with his eyes closed. 'At ten thousand feet,'

'Ah save it, you big pansy,' mocked Patrick as he helped Jason to sit up, 'I chased ladies that could do worse than this. So, what did they want?'

'The Russians, what else?' replied Jason, trying to get to his feet, wincing from his cracked rib as he did so. Patrick and Marty had to steady him for a few times, before he got his footing back. Black spots danced in his blurry vision at first, but slowly things cleared up. With the one eye that wasn't swollen shut, he surveyed his crew. The male half anyway. Judging by their horrified looks, he must've looked as bad as he felt. But even though he and the Firebirds were in an all time low, he forced himself to keep up the appearance of command. He tilted his head and the vertebrae in his neck snapped back into place with an audible crack.

'They asked me all sorts of strange questions,' he continued. 'If we knew where the Bolsheviks were and about something called radar. They never mentioned the atomics. The whole thing doesn't make sense.'

With that he staggered towards the huge steel door squarely set into the concrete wall. There was no doubt about its purpose; it was supposed to keep them inside and meant it.

'Radar?' asked Marty as he tapped his chin in thought, 'That _is_ odd. I heard about that not too long ago. Supposed to be super high tech top secret eyes only stuff. They say you can look through clouds with that stuff and see airplanes even at night. You see, radio waves bounce off metal. If you can emit them and then measure the Doppler shift–'

'Wait a second,' interrupted Patrick. 'See through clouds? That explains why the Ruski's ran away from the Spooks like lemmings on fire before we even laid our eyes on them. Cause they already knew! Looks like those Bolsheviks got their hands on some pretty nifty gadgets. Sneaking up on them could be a major problem.'

'An' did ye see tha'monstrous zeppelin o' theirs?' prompted Walter, 'Tha' thing must've been at least half a mile long! There's no way in hell ye could shoot tha' down, not without bringing yer very own army air force.'

Jason squinted to see if the lock on the door could be picked in any way.

'Well, a battle can be overcome by an army,' he said, prodding a piece of metal into the lock, 'or by a single man. Don't count ourselves out just yet. I'm pretty sure I can find my way back to the Operations room; we can surprise them, ask them a few questions of our own. Then we get back to the Damocles and go after those red bastards. We're going to get our money and Alicia back.'

'In that order, cap'n?' asked Walter slyly.

For a second, Jason was at a loss for words.

'Well, no, I mean, yes, of course…' he fumbled.

Walter grinned and slapped a wincing Jason on the back. 'Ach, jus' pullin' yer chain, cap'n. We all know ye got a soft spot for the lass. Can't say I blame ye.'

'Meanwhile,' started Patrick and jerked his thumb in the direction of the steel door, 'we have a small glitch in you plan. Namely, the getting-the-hell-out-of-here-part.'

'Right, anybody have any ideas on how to open up sesame?' Jason asked.

'I could,' replied Marty, 'If I had my tools, that is.'

'Think we can lure the guards in here an' surprise 'm?' volunteered Walter.

'Yeah right. They'll just run unsuspectingly into a cell with a few dozen desperate pirates, just because we yell fire?' Patrick retorted.

'Any air ducts we can crawl through?' tried Marty again, 'I heard about this guy Jeffrey, who-'

'This isn't the movies, Marty,' Jason cut short, 'Let's face it, we're not going to get out of here unless a miracle happens.'

Exasperated, he leaned back against the door and fell right through as it swung open unhindered.

When he got to his knees in dumbfounded surprise, he spotted a well curved figure looming over him, her hands planted on the hips, her eyes mocking.

'Well well well, always did like a man on his knees for a lady.'

'_Antoinette?!_ What the hell is going on? How did you escape?'

'By simply asking nicely, mon ami,' she replied as she casually buttoned up her shirt to a slightly less jaw dropping level.

Before Jason could ask further, Nora came to stand beside the sultry piratess, closely followed by a soot-streaked Margaret. By now, the whole male crew climbed over eachother and into the hallway, too excited and too relieved by her return to notice all three women were discretely straightening their clothing. Margaret quickly told them how she had stayed near the wreck of the _Special Delivery_ and was quickly spotted by a Spook patrol. She had tried to hide, but the black planes were just everywhere.

Meanwhile, Jason took Antoinette by the arm and peeked inside the woman's cell. Two men, dressed in nothing more then their underwear, lay unconscious on the floor with their clothes in two neat piles beside them. Even though they were clearly knocked out cold, they wore a grin on their faces that told Jason all he needed to know.

'Asked them nicely, huh?'

'Mes petits chiennes. Aren't they sweet?'

Jason regarded the prone guards with a smirk. 'God help us if you and Patrick ever break up.'

The shock only held Antoinette's features for but the blink of an eye and nobody who wasn't looking for it could have spotted it. Yet it confirmed Jason what he already suspected.

'Relax, your secret is safe with me.'

'But… but… how did you _know_?' Antoinette implored.

'What? With the world's two greatest seducers on one zep? Either you would've killed each other by now, or you've fallen in love, with all the scheming and plotting that follows. Now come on, let's go, with got a zep to catch.'

Walter and Patrick quickly donned the black coveralls of the guards, as only they fitted them. Walking a few dozen yards up front, they scanned the hallways and motioned the others when it was safe. Soon they reached one of the main corridors. Jason recognized it as being the one where the interrogation rooms were situated. Just as they thought it was safe to run across, a door opened up and a man in a black suit exited. Acting on instinct, Marty hit him squarely between the eyes and knocked the man's lights out in a single blow.

Silent, Jason motioned for the body to be hidden in the room, when the big man signaled for him to come and see something. Inside the interrogation room, an exact copy as the one where he was questioned himself, Jason spotted another victim of the Spooks tied to a chair. He was a skinny man with his glasses askew and thankfully not as bloodied up as Jason had been. At the sight of them he immediately started to cry for them to untie him. Alarmed by the sound of approaching boots, the entire crew of the Firebirds crammed into the room. Nora had to gag the man to shut him up as everybody waited with baited breath for the soldiers to pass.

Stealing a second glance at the tied man, Jason noticed how his right shirt sleeve was rolled up, revealing several burn marks. Half a dozen cigarette butts lay on the floor, some still coiling out hazy smoke. Nevertheless, that wasn't what riveted his gaze onto the man. Stepping around the table, Jason gestured Nora to let the man speak.

'Thank God you found me! You must be those aerial pirates they mentioned. They said they were going to throw you from your own zep if you didn't talk and me after you! And then…'

The man's voice faltered. He and Jason shared a look of mutual recognition before speaking out in unison.

'You're that guy from the _Pacifica Princess_!'


	13. Chapter 13 Do Onto Others

**Chapter 13 Do Onto Others**

'You're the pirate who tried to steal my briefcase! The one I was supposed to deliver in the Empire State!' said the man, struggling against his bonds.

'And you're that bloody idiot who got it all wrong. We didn't come aboard the _Pacifica Princess_ to steal your damn briefcase. That was an accident, okay? A stupid mix-up. All we came for was supposed to be a quick and easy hostage pay off.' Jason ran his fingers through his hair and blew out his breath. 'It all comes together now. The Russians, these jokers in black, they both came for you, not us! They must've jumped to the same conclusion though. All right mister, you've got some explaining to do.'

The man immediately refused to say another word, shaking his head vehemently.

'Jason, I don't know how long we can stay here. They're bound to find out we're not where we're supposed to be!' hissed Patrick with one ear pressed to the door.

Jason instructed to untie the man, who, with a weary eye, started to rub his red wrists and stretch his legs.

'Look, we're not the enemy here,' said Jason, 'We don't want your damn briefcase and frankly, you can have it. I just want to get the hell out of here so I can go after those pesky Russians and get my crewmember back - and some money. You can either help us out, or sit here and rot for all I care. But I don't think they're coming for you anytime soon, so what's it going to be?'

The man's eyes shot to the door and back as if watching a ping pong match, beads of sweat slowly descending his stubbled cheeks.

'I never did figure out what a bunch of second rate pirates would want with our calculations,' he spoke at last, 'You couldn't possibly want them for yourself and if you were working for another party, they'd have to be pretty short on cash, let alone be able to afford the machinery necessary to conduct the experiments. I mean, at least the Russians used the Red Skulls!'

Jason refrained his crewmates to re-tie the man and light up another packet of cigarettes. Instead of setting the other man straight himself, something to which his knuckles itched, he let him continue.

'My name is Wilco Babcock. I'm a nuclear physicist for an organization called the Berkely Radiation Laboratory. That's in the Nation of Hollywood by the way. We've been conducting research into nuclear power. I don't suppose you know what it is, but suffice it to say that if it fell into the wrong hands, the consequences would be disastrous!'

'I've heard that phrase before, mostly from politicians looking for an excuse to kill the other guys first,' said Jason. He leaned over until they almost touched noses, 'You better do better then that.'

Babcock sighed and rolled his eyes.

'All right, all right. Look, even before the old United States collapsed there were already several independent research centers just starting to look into this. Even the first results of the preliminary experiments were astounding! It seemed like there was no limit to the amount of energy we could create from even the tiniest amount of fuel. After the big collapse everybody just went their own way, although nobody made any real discoveries. Things just grinded to a halt, you know? So, some of us scientists secretly started to write each other. Just comparing notes, is all. Then suddenly mail gets lost, people disappear, labs are burgled. Something was up; somebody was collecting all the separate pieces of research. We tried to figure it out before it was too late, meeting in secret and such. We soon learned that all the research combined would give any government with some spending cash unlimited power! But crucial calculations were still in our possession and needed to be safeguarded. The man from the project in Manhattan up in the Empire State, he's the smartest of us all. We thought he could keep it safe from prying eyes.'

'And like the naive egghead you are, you decided to jump aboard some two-bit zeppelin without any protection whatsoever and headed for the other coast,' interjected Jason, seeing several pieces fall into place.

'Err, well, yes. I was going to see him, when they jumped me. Exactly how they found me, I'll never know. They must have spies everywhere! Maybe if you hadn't been there…'

The mans voice trailed off, realizing something.

'Maybe if you hadn't been there, the calculations would already be in the hands of the Russians. As absurd as it sounds, maybe the safety of the free world has been prolonged by the petty dealings of a two bit pirate gang. Ha! Wouldn't that be ironic?'

Seeing the same two bit pirate gang surrounding him, scowling and refraining their fists, dropped the smirk from Babcocks face like a stone.

'All right, all right, no need to get angry,' he quickly continued, 'The whole pirate honor or something similarly silly, I suppose. How were you planning to get out of here anyway?'

'You can help by telling us all you know about this base here and those weird black zeppelins', answered Jason through clenched teeth. The mans attitude didn't do much to improve his mood. He almost preferred being beaten up than having to listen to this stuck-up brainboy.

'Nothing much to tell. Before I was brought here, I only heard rumors. Half of those I didn't even believe. All I know is that they're Industrial States of America, some covert operation. The ISA has cash to spend and they founded some secret organization for experiments that don't bear the light of day. I guess they're also interested in nuclear power.'

'Unlimited power? Oh yes, they would be,' mumbled Jason to himself.

The scientist shrugged, indicating the end of his input into the conversation. Raising his voice for as much as he dared, Jason addressed the Firebirds, 'Listen up everybody. This is what we're going to do. We're smack in the middle of a large underground base, manned by professional soldiers armed to the teeth with high tech weaponry. It won't be easy, but we can make it out of here. We're going to need caution and we're going to need stealth. If things hit the fan, well… Just be ready, okay?'

'Why not just hope for a miracle?' said Nora, rolling her eyes.

'Look, this is no time to get sarcastic, we have to –'

Jason's rebuke was cut short by the piercing blare of an alarm, followed by a resolute voice over the intercom.

'This is a red alert, I repeat, this is a red alert. Captain Dahl, Captain Bender, Captain Hopkins, Captain Heflin, please report to your vessels. Pirate elements have breached first line perimeter. Immediate deployment of reactionary forces has been initiated. All personnel report to your battle stations.'

Even before the message was completely finished, a stampede of running boots trooped past their hide out in the interrogation room.

Stunned, all of the Firebirds stood mute with silent amazement. It was Marty who first spoke.

'Guess the miracle approach works too,' he said unfazed.

Without wasting further time, Jason motioned Patrick and Walter to resume their act as guards and check out the hallway. They met with the kind of silence you only find after a busy place has utterly emptied. Setting out as silent as cats in a dog pound, they carefully tried several rooms, but all were the same; deserted and void of life.

Exploring the base, they made their way upwards through the anthill of tunnels and stairs. A random corridor, no different then any of the others, suddenly opened up into wall-high windows. The view was nothing short of breathtaking and the Firebirds gazed out, dumbstruck.

They were on a high point, looking down into a vast underground cavern. Above them, thick iron girders supported the entire farmland they had seen on the surface with its farmhouse and barn and all. The space was big enough to hold a medium sized town beneath the ground. They couldn't help feeling dwarfed and insignificant by the sheer size of empty space before them, emphasized by its man-made cover. Right in the middle, tethered by dozens of cables like Gulliver bound by the Lilliputts, hung the _Damocles_. To complete the surprise, she was apparently undergoing repairs. Yet instead of the off-white coloured cloth with which she had been fitted at the beginning of her service, the missing number two, four and six gasbags had been replaced with the dull black cloth used on the Spook zeppelins.

'Well, whaddaya know,' said Patrick, 'Looks like they didn't strip her for parts after all.'

'But…but…but...,' stammered Marty. As chief engineer, it was perhaps he who cared most for their aerial base.

'Cheer up, lad,' said Walter as he slapped the big guy on he back, 'I thought ye'd be pleased to see the ol' gal again!'

'But she looks like a friggin' zebra!'

'No time for semantics now, buddy,' said Jason, 'As long as it's a flying zebra , I'm not one for esthetics. Now look, does everybody see that concrete building on the other side? There are still people walking around inside. I bet its their operations room from where they coordinate their defenses. If we can take them out now their main force is busy elsewhere, we just might be able to open up this bizarre hangar and fly right out!'

He spotted a few doubtful looks, but nobody seemed inclined to oppose him. Good, time was of the essence now. They quickly found access into the gaping subterranean hall that was the hangar bay. Silent as bats, the circled around the concrete floor littered with crates, fuel tanks, trucks and numerous other heavy equipment. Using only hand signals, Jason motioned for his crew to get behind him while he positioned himself next to the entrance. Instinctively, his hand reached towards his shoulder holster for his trusty Browning, only to find it empty. _Of course, they disarmed me right after capture_, thought Jason and let a small sigh escape his mouth.

Counting down to three with his fingers clearly visible, the other Firebirds readied themselves. With all the strength he could muster, Jason kicked down the door and rushed inside. Caught off guard, all occupants looked up in shock at this new and violent interruption. Within a heartbeat, Jason counted two armed guards and half a dozen of operators sitting behind their desks. Hitting the closest guard in the neck with a seppuku so fast his arm was but a blur, Jason started off the fight. The next got a face full of flying boot, as he performed a roundhouse kick with amazing grace. Knocked unconscious before even hitting the ground, a reflex caused the guard to fire his strange machinegun. The chrome plated weapon sprayed lances of pure hellfire into the ceiling. Meanwhile, the Firebirds poured in. One of the operators made a dive for the radio, but was swiftly dispatched by Nora and Margaret who jumped him simultaneously. Within moments they had seized control of all of them.

'Wow, that was amazing!' blurted Babcock, who had reluctantly come in after making sure it was safe, 'What with that blow to his neck and that high kick! How did you, where did you…'

'Picked up some martial arts when I served in China,' replied Jason pre-occupied with their captives, 'It's called kung fu. Comes in handy every once in a while.'

'You were in China?'

'It's a long story, but the short of it is that I was recruited to fight the revolutionaries aided by the Russians. When I found out what the ruling government did to its prisoners, I kinda switched sides. When they turned out to be no better, I quit fighting for another man's cause and started fighting for my own.'

'You mean, you actually helped communists?' said Babcock with a look of suspicion screwing up his face.

'Yes, I did. You want to make something of it?' Jason snapped. Seeing the other man flinch, he turned his back on him and diverted his attention back to the new captives.

'I'd leave that subject alone, if I were you,' whispered Patrick into the scientists ear and winked, 'It's better for your health, trust me.'

'I always wondered what these were supposed to be,' Marty said picking up one of the weird chrome guns. He pointed to the charred ceiling. Thin wisps of smoke curled from a neat row of holes in the concrete while a soft sizzling still buzzed inside them.

'Magnesium rounds! These guys actually modified their hand guns to fire magnesium rounds like we use in our planes! My God, can you imagine what would happen if you shoot a human being with one of these?'

'Care to find out?' said Walter as he picked up the other rifle and pointed it point blank at one of the operators.

'Cut that out,' said Jason gruff, 'You know we're above that sort of stuff.'

'We got all of them here,' said Nora after attending to their hostages, 'According to the white coats there's nobody else left on the base. As soon as the alarm went off, they all jumped aboard their zeps and took off. Guess who was kind enough to help us out? The Red Skulls, for crying out loud. Looks like we owe good ol' Genghis one.'

'Well, don't let him hear it,' answered Jason frowning, 'It figures, though.'

'What do you mean?' said Walter, 'Jonathan 'Genghis' Khan is flying under a letter of marque from the Industrial States, everybody knows that. Why attack militia from the very state that shelters him?'

'Because he doesn't know this black-clad militia is I.S.A., does he?' answered Jason, 'I bet their government classifies this whole operation to be on a need to know basis and a savage pirate leader doesn't qualify. Genghis must simply be trying to get back at whoever double-crossed them. Skulls are very picky about that sort of thing.'

'Yeah, just like they are about someone dating their sister,' interrupted Patrick.

'And now they're brawling with their own side. Oh, how sweet the irony,' added Antoinette. 'Not that Red Skulls really have a side, of course, except their own.'

'All right, listen up everyone!' called Jason, 'We got a lot of work to do and not a hell of a lot of time to do it in. I want two parties. One will scavenge the hangar for anything we can use. I'm talking supplies here, spare parts, fuel, food, valuables, anything we can use. Load it up on those flatbed trucks over there and drive them right under the _Damocles_. Ladies, I want you to handle that. Group two will go aboard, prep her for launch and receive the goods from group one. Marty, that one's yours. Babcock, you stay here and listen to the radio. Warn us if those zeppelins are coming back. Patrick, Walter, you put those clowns in a safe place. And don't harm them unless it's absolutely necessary. They may have blood on their hands, I don't want any of theirs on mine, got it?'

Everybody except the sulking scientist cheered and got to work. Patrick and Walter marched off with their captives. Walter held on to his magnesium gun which was enough to scare them into perfect obedience. The first half of the Firebirds practically ran outside and started grabbing anything they could use. The other half climbed up the tether ropes like trained monkeys in a circus and picked their way inside the hulking zeppelin. Before following his group however, Marty sidled up to Jason with a serious face.

'I think we got a problem. See those hangar doors? See how they're set in the ceiling precisely right above us? That means we'll be going straight up without being able to see what's waiting there for us. We'll be sitting ducks out there! We need some sort of escort, but we can't launch fighters while we're still in here!'

'Leave that to me,' responded Jason confidently and clapped the big man on the back, 'You just focus on getting the _Damocles_ ready to leave a.s.a.p, all right?'.

When Marty left to join his group, Jason sighed and hung his shoulders. He had seen the hangar doors too and reached the same conclusion. They wouldn't just be sitting ducks; they'd be the big teddy bear prize at the carnival shooting range. He gave it some thought, but there was simply nothing else for it. He would have to think of something when the time came. No good standing around doing nothing.

The _Damocles_ came back to life as her windows lit up from the inside, bay doors swung open and heavy cables were lowered. Jason helped the girls by hoisting up fuel hoses, plundering the well stocked warehouse and loading everything up on the trucks. As soon as a truck was full, it was raced towards the spot underneath the launch bay doors. There it was hauled up, emptied onto the floor of the launch bay like a big sack of Christmas presents and lowered back down again. They managed to do this five times, before the shrill voice of Babcock came through the P.A. system.

'Hello? Pirate people? I just received a message that the Red Skulls destroyed two of their zeppelins and damaged the others before giving up themselves. I don't know how many planes they have left, but they're all coming back. They say they'll be here in fifteen minutes!'

Jasons mind could barely provide him with curses terrible enough to express his frustration. He immediately instructed the twins to round up the crew and get aboard. Antoinette was to fetch Babcock and find a way to open the massive doors. Then he shouted to Marty up in the _Damocles _to start up her engines and prepare to cast off. They might be able to pull the whole thing off in less then fifteen minutes, but it still meant that they would have to escape with the Spooks right on top of them. What was worse, he still had no idea how to provide for an escort. Just when he was about to say his prayers and hope for the best, Patrick and Walter came running back. They homed in on Jason like seeker rockets, both smiling from ear to ear. This, Jason knew from experience, was a bad sign.

'What?!'

'Boy, are you going to love this,' said Patrick.

'Yeah, it's really something for you,' Walter concurred.

'Listen, we don't have time anymore, so get back aboard the Damocles. Those militia Spooks are coming back and we have to be airborne in less then fifteen minutes.'

'You want to make time for this one. Come along, you'll see,' was all Walter would say further and beckoned Jason to follow them.

They rushed him through another series of grey corridors until they stood before a huge metal door with nothing but a big white arrow pointing upwards painted on it.

'This is it? This is the big surprise?' asked Jason almost out of breath and feeling precious time slipping away. Besides that, their smiles drove him crazy.

'Oh, ye of little faith!' urged Patrick, 'Go ahead, open it!'

Taking hold of its edge, Jason pulled the door squealing for oil aside. Inside was a circular space, about forty feet in diameter with smooth round walls leading up into darkness above them. It looked somewhat like the inside of a grain silo, but instead of grain it contained a metal construction of vertical tracks. Jason had no way of telling if it ran all the way up to the surface, but he figured chances were good because of what was sitting at the very bottom of the shaft, neatly held in place by the construction.

'We happened to come across this when we came back from the holding cells,' said Walter, still gasping for breath, 'What do you think?'

'Boys, my apologies for being so mistrusting,' said Jason and joined his crew mates in their smiling, 'I think you just smoothed the last wrinkle out of our escape plan.'

Before them stood an airplane, menacing in its pitch black paint and pointed straight up like fireworks waiting to be lit.


	14. Chapter 14 From Russia With Love

**Chapter 14 From Russia With Love**

Alicia felt cold. She had difficulty remembering. Everything that had happened to her since she was snatched from the relative safety of the _Damocles_ was blurry and muddled. One thing she did know for sure, she had been feeling cold for a long time. It crept through her body towards her bones like rain slowly drenching your clothes. Even lying under her blanket, clenching her teeth was all she could do to stop them from chattering

Turning away from the bare metal wall to which she was staring, Alicia spied her cell once more to see if there was some way, some thing she might have missed to help her escape. It was mostly empty; the only furniture consisted of her bed with a straw mattress to sleep on, a three-legged stool to sit on and a metal foldaway table attached to the wall to eat from. There was a dented old bucket underneath the bed she didn't have the courage or the need yet to use. A faint smell of mildew drifted down from an air vent set in the ceiling.

It wasn't the lack of comfort that bothered her; it was the lack of view. The first few days when she was imprisoned aboard the _Damocles_, she was given a spacious room, a former officers quarters, complete with her own tiny bathroom. The one thing she remembered most fondly was the breathtaking view that came with it. She'd spend hours sitting on the window sill, mesmerized by the sweeping vistas of landscape so far below as if she had a map of the world that came alive just for her. This cell didn't have so much as a single view port or even an eyelet that would let her see where they were or how high. For they were airborne, that she was sure of. Even though she had been taken off the Damocles blindfolded, after spending a month and a half with the Firebirds up in the air, she could tell by the way the floor swayed ever so slightly and the far off drone of engines.

Alicia stood up to stretch her legs and loosen up her back. The room was not much larger then her walk-in closet back home in Pacifica. She grimaced. The memory woke up a painful homesickness she'd been trying to tiptoe around in her head, but only managed to make it worse when it finally hit her. As dull as her life could be at times, she never had to worry about bullets flying, or whether somebody would actually pay her ransom to come and get her. She had imagined that she was a tough girl, hardened, unfazed by the hardship and uncertainty of being held hostage, but she now realized that the Firebirds were not like other aerial pirates. They treated her as a person, with respect. The Russians just threw her in a cot and forgot about her, except when to feed her a bowl of stomach-turning Borsjt.

Her mind filled with memories of the sea-side mansion with its broad balconies offering a view of the deep green ocean, as peaceful in it's endless restlessness. Every one of its thirty spacious rooms had the soft smell of sea salt, including her own. Large enough to park a plane in, with a four-poster bed the color of clouds, her room had been her sanctuary. A shelter from a shallow life with equally shallow friends, who never cared about anything except whether there was a new guy to be examined at one of the high society parties that made up her social life.

Those memories made her shrink, made her draw back into herself and collapse back onto bed. Examining new guys was all her friends had been interested in and a new guy was exactly who examined her instead and swooped her away to his castle in the skies. Not exactly a knight in shining amour, more of a rogue with a romantic soul hidden behind a passion for adventure and a sardonic sense of humor. It was his voice that spoke to her through the quagmire of leaden memories. _Don't get sad, get mad. Get mad and get even._

His voice threw a spark and it kindled into a flame. The same flame she felt during the pay off aboard the _Pacifica Princess_. The same flame that turned into a fire when she argued with her father for wanting to return to the Firebirds, resulting in running away from home, buying a fighter plane and flying it to Sky Haven, alone and determined to prove herself. The same fire now turned into a blaze that roared inside her and drove away the cold as if she was the desert sun come to life.

She screamed as hard as she could, squeezing out the air in her lungs, and heard someone startle on the other side of the door. Grinning satisfied, she kicked the door with all her might. The metallic clang carried throughout the hallway on the other side.

'Let me out!' she shouted, 'Let me out, you bastards! You think you can keep me locked in here like a weak little girl? I'll show you!'

Fueled with searing rage, she lifted up the mattress and threw it through the room. She grabbed the hinged table and smashed it metal to metal. She picked up the stool and hurled it against the door, all the while screaming and shouting to let her out, using all the swearing and cursing she knew. Drawing more and more energy from her anger, Alicia kept on kicking, hitting, hurling, smashing and yelling until a curt click made her turn towards the door. It swung open. Alicia threw instinctively. The guard caught the wooden stool flat on in his face and jerked backwards, blood spraying from a broken nose.

Using the short run up she had, Alicia propelled herself at the door and kicked the second guard in the stomach. The man folded double with a guttural wheeze, while the first one tried to call for help with his hands clasped around his nose and mouth and blood seeping through his fingers. Quickly Alicia picked up the stool again and clubbed them both on the head once more. Both men remained still.

For a moment her mind wouldn't let her believe what just happened. Did she, the pretty young rich girl, knock two trained military guards out cold just like that? She dropped the stool from a trembling hand. Panic stirred like an awakening wildcat in her stomach. Alicia steeled herself and forced her mind to focus. With a composure she didn't know she could muster until that very moment, she started to pick the guard's pockets until she found the keys she was looking for. She dragged the limp bodies into her cell and locked the door. Then, fueled by a rush of adrenaline that tasted bitter in her mouth, Alicia ran off into the corridor.

There was no time to waste celebrating her victory over the guards. Alicia stopped at the first door she came across. The door was marked in Cyrillic alphabet, stating an incomprehensible name or function. It wouldn't budge, so she tried the next. She tried one after the other, swiftly and on her toes to avoid the sound of running steps. They were all the same. Nearly reaching the end of the corridor, she heard a sudden fall of footsteps coming towards her. Searching frantically for a place to hide, panic stretched out inside her again as she realized her own cell was now too far away to reach in time. Her eyes fell on a shadowy niche on her left, almost invisible to the casual eye. Rungs were set into the wall of the narrow alcove, topped off by a hatch.

The next moment, the door opened to let two men through, both dressed in unmarked uniforms, except for the pilot's wings on their chest. They spoke in Russian, the smaller of the two snarling at the enormous man by his side. Neither of them saw Alicia's foot disappear soundlessly through the hatch above them.

She found herself on an intersection of low service crawlspaces. Dust and cables littered the floor around her while everything was supported by thick metal girders. A cold current of air blew past her, carriying that faint smell of mildew and making her skin crawl beneath her thin clothing. Alicia sat still for a while, trying to decide what to do next and slowing the frantic thumping of her heart, before it would burst out of her chest. Not many options were left open to her at that moment, so she decided to follow a random collection of cables that snaked off to her far right.

Here and there were ventilation grids set in the floor, allowing her to eavesdrop on the crew scurrying beneath her. Her escape, it seemed, had not gone by unnoticed. There was a great deal of commotion and soldiers marched by everywhere. Orders were barked and replies were shouted, but all in Russian and Alicia couldn't make heads or tails of it. She did pick up one thing though; several times she thought she heard someone say: Empire State.

Scuffing her hands and knees, Alicia clambered along, climbing and ducking for longer then she thought possible. It confused her bit. Surely a stretch of cable such as this must run the entire length of the gondola, but here was another at a right angle. And another! That would make this zeppelin at least twice as big as the _Damocles_, not the smallest of airships herself.

Alicia came to a nexus of cables, pipes, ducts and girders. They all came together in whatever lay beneath her feet. A ventilation grid allowed her to peer inside. It revealed a large square room, deserted, save for the multitude of complicated machinery all around. Figuring she had to get back down sooner or later, Alicia swung the grid open and lowered herself down. The room was brightly lit and alive with a score of humming, buzzing and bleeping. It was even more cluttered with elaborate instruments and intricate equipment then she thought, from electrical discharges that crackled purple along strange metal and porcelain conduits to glass tubing bubbling ominously with a luminescent green liquid.

Yet one thing dominated everything else. In the middle of the room, supported by a strong metal frame stood something that looked somewhat like the enormous boiler she once saw in the basement back home, all metal pipes, valves and gauges hugging a black cylindrical hulk. Except it was lying on its side and there were tailfins on one end of this contraption. Alicia felt her knees buckle as realization set in. She had seen that kind of tailfins before. Much smaller then these, but still the same kind. It had been when she helped Marty doing inventory in the ammunition store aboard the _Damocles_.

It was a bomb. She suddenly knew it to be true. A gigantic explosive device consisting of whatever infernal technology these Bolsheviks had mastered. And they were heading towards the Empire State.

Another click and this time it was the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Alicia froze, still composed, but only from the sheer terror of being found out.

'That far enough, miss Vanderlubsen, yes?' came a heavily accented voice from behind.

Alicia said nothing and turned to face the same slender man she had seen coming through the door of the prison block corridor. A wolfish grin peeled the corners of his mouth back, which didn't do much good to his scarred face.

'Your guards told me you make much noise before, but now you have nothing to say? Good, I advise to keep that way, miss Vanderlubsen. You see my friend Sergei?'

The hulking figure of a man with tiny beady eyes appeared behind the first. He cracked his knuckles.

'Sergei is gentleman, but he very sensitive to shouting. Is a condition he has. When he hears women screaming, he goes -' the man circled his index finger beside his head, '- a little funny. Is better not to let happen, yes?'

Alicia stood silent, her eyes blazing a hell's fury.

'Is good!' said the man cheerfully and pressed the tips of his right hand on his chest, 'My name is Oleg, I am gentleman too. I see you admire our glorious technological triumph! Is good, is very good. You know what it is, yes?'

'I can take a wild guess. It's a bomb, right?'

'Oh no, miss Vanderlubsen, not just a bomb!' replied Oleg, acting out a shocked indignation, 'Is mother of all bombs. Is worlds first nuclear warhead. This is _Ustrojstvo_ and it will vaporize entire Empire State to dust! It heralds new age for Russia as only supreme super power!'

For a moment it was all Alicia could do but to stare at the megalomaniac size of the Russians' intentions. Oleg, however, perceived it otherwise.

'You are impressed, yes? I have more to show you. Come, you will join us.'

The Russian holstered his gun and gestured for her to follow him. Alicia tried to come up with possible ways to escape, but Oleg didn't allow her any time. She had no choice but to obey. For now.

Oleg walked in front, leading the way for Alicia, who was in turn followed by the siege tower that was Sergei. They descended stairs, turned corners and even rode an elevator until she started to doubt whether they could still be airborne. No airship was this big, maybe they were inside some large naval vessel, a battleship of sorts? Her pondering was cut short when she was finally led into a space the size of a small theater. It was two stories high and they were half way up, standing on a platform that extended into the middle of the room like a bridge cut in half. This space was lined with machines of all sorts as well. There were gauges, levers and dials everywhere. Her gaze, however, was riveted to the enormous windows in front of her, running all the way from floor to ceiling. They were in the air all right. Higher then she'd ever been. Higher then anything, man or machine, had ever hoped to reach. The earth below her was a hazy brown at an extraordinary distance of empty air below them. She could clearly see the curve of the horizon beneath a blackened sky.

Oleg stood beside her, studying the face of his captive. "Smug" couldn't begin to describe the glee on his marred face.

'Welcome to bridge of _Mat'Rossiya_, miss Vanderlubsen. Is largest flying machine of whole world and secret base of glorious Soviet Union. Here we conduct experiments without worry about spies or attackers. Right now altitude is amazing forty-five thousand feet up in air. Outside is minus seventy degrees and no air to breath. But if no air, how is possible we not suffocate? If minus seventy, how come we not freeze?'

The Russian paused a moment for obvious dramatic effect. He kept his eyes locked on Alicia all the while, measuring every expression she might display.

'I tell you is easy,' he continued with a little extra emphasis when she kept a straight face, 'Entire gondola of _Mat'Rossiya_ is airtight. We simply compress outside air until is same as sea level, then pump inside. We use hot coolant from nuclear reactor to keep warm. We simply rise up in air and nobody can reach us. We have radar installation to see everyone trying, even if clouds or darkness. We are untouchable Soviet supremacy!'

Alicia regained her wits after a moment of being dumfounded from trying to take it all in. She now knew of the diabolic plan they intended to carry out and realized there was no way to warn anybody. Nobody could ever come and rescue her. It meant that it was up to her to escape. Strangely enough, this thought reassured her somehow. There were no uncertain hopes that may or may not happen. Just herself, no buts, no maybes. She already escaped once, she felt confident she could do it again.

'Why are you telling me all this?' she casually asked.

'Is good question,' answered Oleg, letting go of his canine grin, 'We are in difficult time. Russian people not always trust new government of Soviet Union. American people think we are enemy. They are divided, yes, but all still hate Soviets. Even People's Collective not like us anymore. When Empire State gone, American people suspect Nation of Hollywood, or Industrial States of America. They make war. When all over, Soviet Union come and claim America. But we need… symbol. Example of American capitalist, who is shown the true path of communism. Who devotes herself to cause and shows way to both people, Soviet and American!'

Oleg fell silent for a moment, seemingly searching for words. When Alicia turned to see what was the matter she caught him looking at her with a far off gleam in his eyes. Oleg quickly turned away to avoid her looks. Was it expectance? Hope? Maybe even…no, surely not. That would be ridiculous.

But still, hadn't she seen that gleam in a guy's eyes before? Yes, many times even. In a split decision she decided to play it out and make sure. She would use the tricks Antoinette had taught her about men and their simple weaknesses. She smiled inwardly; she never thought she'd do this kind of thing for such high stakes.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, exaggerating the sway her hips and effectively stepping closer to the man. She took a deep breath to expand her chest and threw her hair seemingly unthinking over her shoulder. Oleg's eyes went just that little bit wide, but it was all she had to know. The bastard had an eye on her!

'You want me to… come over to the Bolsheviks?' she timidly asked and bit her lower lip softly.

Oleg nodded slowly, staring again.

'Can not be coincidence. You. Here. You are daughter of rich industrialist, enemy of working class. You are symbol of wealth. You were stolen by pirates, symbol of thieving criminals, not willing to work, lusting only for money. If you support communism, you become shining beacon!'

Oleg gestured wildly around him, not only indicating the bridge of the super zeppelin, but also the entire globe beyond. Then he reached out and trailed his hand through her long locks of black hair.

'You can stay here, on _Mat'Rossiya_. All you see is yours. Everything you want. I protect you. Is impressive, yes?'

Alicia sighed and looked him straight in the eye as she always did when she wanted to get rid of the next rich kid hitting on her with a weak attempt at impressing her with his expensive playthings.

'You know, my mother warned me that boys never grow up; only their toys get more expensive. But this is ridiculous.' She held up her pinky finger. 'Are you sure you're not compensating for something?'

Oleg's face darkened and he backhanded her across the face with an uncanny speed. Alicia's world went momentarily black as hot pain seared her right eye and cheek. She stumbled and would have fallen if not for the hulking figure of Sergei being a human wall to steady herself. Underneath the pain on the outside, inside her head she sensed a feeling of power that came with it. She had hurt him. She had control over his emotions and that made it worthwhile to endure the pain of the blow. She finally understood the grin and swagger of so many pirates. It could drive any man crazy.

'Oh, you _suka_!' Oleg yelled at her and then barked to Sergei: 'Take her back to her cell!'

The huge thug of a man said nothing. He just grabbed Alicia and hauled her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Despite the pain, Alicia laughed all the way back to her cell. When the door slammed shut and locked, she was still laughing. Even though her position was as hopeless as ever, she couldn't help herself. Lying on her cold bed, Alicia laughed and laughed, until her stomach cramped and tears streamed from her eyes. She giggled all the way to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15 The Great Escape

**Chapter 15 The Great Escape**

'Okay, so you're absolutely sure you want to do this?' asked Patrick, not entirely keeping the doubt out of his voice.

'I told you already, Patrick. It's not a matter of choice,' Jason called down from up high. He was strapping himself in after climbing into the cramped cockpit of the black Spook plane. It wasn't easy sitting down in a pilot's seat tilted ninety degrees backwards.

Closer inspection revealed it was an unnamed Bell Valiant Mk II sitting at the base of the experimental launch machine, like a bullet in the open slide of a giant rifle. Not a bad choice to make in Jason's mind. The Valiant was a light and agile fighter with a characteristic cruciform tail, high wings and a big pusher prop. This configuration called for a shallow angle on take offs and landings and therefore the need for long runways, but the Spooks had certainly thought of a creative way around it. The only real drawback would be the light payload to match its light weight. Yet serving as a point defense interceptor, Jason felt confident he couldn't have asked for a better plane to escort the _Damocles_ to safety. Except maybe a dozen more of them.

There had been the necessary modifications though. The standard six .30 caliber machineguns or "paper punchers" as Walter was fond of calling them, had been replaced by two sturdy .60 calibers. He didn't have any rockets at his disposal, but the munitions drums were enlarged to compensate. No need to worry about running out of ammo on this sortie. Several bulges in the cowling suggested the engine had been worked on as well. Jason figured it must have been necessary to make it run in its unnatural starting position.

A notepad lying on the control panel at the base of the whole contraption labeled it "Experiment 626 - Zero Length Take-Off System Z.L.T.O.S.", an acronym only government eggheads could come up with. Jason sometimes wondered if they got paid by the letter of the abbreviations they invented.

Now was not the time however. The clock was ticking and counting down fast. He adjusted his seat and worked himself through the start up procedure.

'I'm going to close the lid on this thing, you ready?' he called down to where Patrick and Walter were busy getting the launch system ready as well.

'Err, sure. Yeah, we definitely think so!' was the confidence inspiring answer, 'It's a pretty straightforward system. All we have to do is open the doors, arm the launcher and flick the switch here. You just make sure your rev counter is kissing the red line by then. We'll flash the lights once to throttle up and once more to indicate your dramatic departure. Got it?'

'Got it. You two get yourselves back on the _Damocles_ as soon as I'm gone, you understand? I want you to launch fighters as soon as you're high enough. It may take some time. We got some pretty loot out of the warehouses, but it's also heavy.

Jason slid the canopy shut. As soon as the latches locked, his pulse slowed and his vision somehow became more clear, more focused. He changed from the man Jason Grant into the ace pilot Jazz. It happened every time he was in the pilot's seat, no matter if he was flying a rickety old crop duster, or his own high performance fighter plane. The man Jason called it the pilot's edge. The ace Jazz just called it freedom.

The sound of a compressor starting up rolled around in the enclosed space of the silo. Hisses and sputtering from the construction holding the plane accompanied a slight vibration. Jazz felt the system building up pressure. The roar of the compressor became louder. Not much longer now. He pushed the starter button and after a short whine and sputter the Rolls Royce Morgana engine behind him burst into life. Jazz had flown Valiants before and instantly knew this puppy had been given some extra horsepower to play with.

Through the noise of the plane's engine, Patrick and Walter watched the needle of the main pressure gauge inching towards the narrow green band in the dial. Patrick's hand hovered above the switch activating the hatch closing off the silo and Walter's was resting next to an armed switch positioned prominently in the middle of the control panel. The closer the needle came to the green band, the slower it seemed to go. They didn't know how much time they had left before the Spooks came back, but it was close enough without having to wait in agony for some stupid gauge. After an eternity of seconds, the needle finally arrived in its green haven. Walter flicked the lights once and disarmed the launch switch. Immediately the sound of the engine swelled from an idle drone to a demonic roar of horsepower. A tornado coming from the propeller blasted Walter and Patrick who had to take their hands from the control panel and press them to their ears against the deafening noise.

Inside the Valiant's cockpit Jason felt like being strapped to a wild bull just before they opened the gate to the rodeo. He was confident that, once up in the air, he would be able to get the whole thing under control. Another flashing of the overhead lights and an invisible giant suddenly kicked him merciless in the back. The walls of the silo around him blurred as he shot straight up into the shadows. As the roar of the plane rumbled like a roll of thunder, both pirates watched the plane disappear in the shadows above.

'Think he'll make it?'

'Hope so. Guess we'll know soon enough. '

They raised their heads in silence to watch the shadowy apex of the silo.

-/-

Having your stomach lodged firmly between your ears does have its advantages. For one, it compresses your brain enough to keep it from panicking. Jazz could do little except to bear the elephantine g force pressing down on him and watch the cross beams of the launch tracks flash by. Up ahead in the shadows the big hatch on top of the silo raced towards him. The plane reached the end of the shaft and with a soft whoosh he was clear. For a whole second.

The black Spook zeppelin was near invisible against the night sky. If it hadn't been for the soft glow of the gondola's windows and the exhaust flames of her engines, Jazz wouldn't have realized the airship was blocking his path until he was drawing his last breath full of helium.

The one second between being ejected into open air and smashing into thirty million cubic feet of lighter than air was just enough. Jazz yanked the Valiant into a hard right and skimmed the circumference of the battle zeppelin to within an inch. Leveling the fighter off into an inverted flight before he lost too much speed, he took stock of the situation as fast as possible. A pilot's situational awareness is his ability to keep track of everything happening around him in all dimensions, especially when not in his field of vision. Not only where other planes are, but also their speed and heading. In a dogfight, it seperates the aces from the pilots.

There were two Spook zeppelins left after their skirmish with the Red Skulls, each escorted by half a dozen fighters. The one directly above the Estate (and almost responsible for Jazz's early departure from the mortal coil) was in the lead and limping towards the tumbledown farmhouse; the other, missing a gasbag and half her engines trailed miles behind, laboring against the wind. Jazz switched on the radio and heard the first zeppelin hailing the control room and wondering why there was no reply. The element of surprise was certainly on his side, but he had precious little time to make use of it. A pack of Furies flew point for the limping Spook airship. _All right, fighters first. Let's see what this baby can do!_ he thought. He rolled right side up, arced into a battle turn and beared down on them like a nighthawk going for the kill.

Approaching them from behind, none of them even realized he was there. One of them lagged behind and Jazz aligned the Valiant until the Spook was dead in his sights. The twin sixty calibers opened up at his command and spewed a volley of fiery streams that lit up the night sky. The Fury caught fire and tumbled out of the sky.

_Magnesium rounds,_ Jazz thought and smiled, Of course. A quick nose up and the next came within range. Another salvo, then another and the second plane blew up into a ball of fire. Even though Jazz managed to nick the tail of the third, it turned just in time to escape destruction.

The radio came alive with panic.

'What the…?! This is the ISN _Langley_, who's that shooting at us?'

'There! It's the Valiant prototype! Where'd he come from?'

'I don't know! He just shot out of the ground like a bat out of hell!'

'Well, why didn't you say anything, you idiot?'

This conversation continued for some time. Jazz ignored them. He was hot on the tail of the one that got away and almost had him again when the overhead sky ripped apart in a blue-yellow explosion. The shockwave buffeted the Valiant, but was too far away to do any real damage.

_High-Ex rockets no less. Looks like these guys are playing hard to get!_ thought Jazz as he doggedly stayed on the third plane's tail. The pilot tried to dive under the friendly zeppelin, luring him within turret range. Jazz cursed the lack of rockets on his own plane to finish this quickly. Instead his used the superior turning rate of the Valiant, gritting his teeth through the pressure of the g load and gained close on the Fury. As they passed underneath, a phalanx of turret fire rattled the nose of the Valiant before they cleared the battle zeppelin. In turn, Jazz blew the black Fury apart at point blank range. The acrid smell of burning oil intruded his close-fitting cockpit, but Jazz was unsure just whose engine it was from.

A jet of fire shot across his field of vision, leaving a glowing line of after image on his retinae. It detonated somewhere behind him. Jazz turned his guns towards the source and spotted three more Spooks coming for him at ten o'clock high. These were heavy hitters, twin engined Sanderson FB14 Vampires; powerful, heavily armed and a turning radius the size of Texas.

Even though the enemy had the height advantage, Jazz rolled around to intercept the Spook planes. There was no chance of winning a head on assault, even surviving was out of the question, but he wanted them to think he was reckless. It worked, they delayed opening fire until there was no way they could miss.

Acting on instinct, Jazz nosed the Valiant down and dove straight underneath them. Then, using the extra speed to his advantage, he pulled up, rolled over and performed a clean Immelman. This brought him directly behind his attackers and he opened fire immediately, not caring about precision. Lances of hellish light streaked out of his wings and into the Spooks. The first burst into flames, the second had his engines explode off his fuselage, taking half the tail with them. The third tried jinking his plane frantically to spoil Jazz' aim. Too bad Vampires were as agile as a tank with wings. Jazz was just about to line up his sights when a sultry voice came through his radio.

'Mon capitaine, are you done swatting the flies yet?'

'Bonnie, dear, I'm working on it. Give me a minute and I'll tell when it's safe to go play outside.'

'Well, it is just that we're a bit anxious to get underway. Patrick and Walter came back with the prisoners.'

Jazz nearly lost his prey. It took him to the edge of a black out to get behind him again.

'What? For crying out loud, why?!' he grunted, straining to keep his breath.

'They said they left a homecoming gift behind for the Spooks. Something about lighting a nice beacon to guide them home. They wouldn't say what exactly, but you know as well as I we better make ourselves scarce before this present unwraps itself.'

'As much as I like their generosity, you do realize there is this strike zeppelin right on top of you and, oh yes, a bunch of fighters trying to air condition my plane? Start opening the hangar and I'll see what I can do.'

'Merci beaucoup and good luck!'

He finished off the remaining Vampire by destroying its left hand wing and sending it into an uncontrollable spin. Jazz straightened out and went back for the zeppelin. The escorts of the second airship could be here any second and he had precious little time to get rid of the big airship blocking the Damocles' exit. How he was to do this without any rockets, let alone aerial torpedoes, was somewhat of a challenge. Jason 'Jazz' Grant liked challenges like that.

After climbing and turning until he was above and behind the _Langley_, Jazz swooped down on her stern. Ducking and weaving to avoid the left over turrets, he made a pass at her starboard engines. Two of them disintegrated under his guns before he was clear again.

Suddenly a giant I-shape made of light appeared in the dark meadows below, each half the size of a football field. The gargantuan doors of the underground hangar were opening.

A modest Hammerhead later Jazz attacked the port side nacelles and managed to take out all remaining three. Almost against his nature, Jazz was grateful for the Red Skulls. They had softened up the Spook zeppelins. Had they been in operational condition, he wouldn't have stood a chance.

The _Langley_ threw a barrage of threats and turret fire at him, but they were helpless against the wind gently pushing them away from the Estate. With only one sputtering engine left on the whole airship, it simply drifted away from the hangar doors now half open beneath her.

Out of the ground, her underside illuminated by the bright hangar lights, the _Damocles_ rose up into the night sky like a demon rising from the pit of Hell. By the time she was level with the other zeppelin, it was too far off to do any harm. Jazz wanted to cheer, but then he spotted the oncoming attack of the second zeppelin.

The ISN _Roswell_ had bided her time. From a safe distance, she launched all airworthy planes to support her escort. Even though their armor was damaged during the fight with the Red Skulls, they knew their strength lay in numbers, not stamina. Black fighter planes circled the crippled zeppelin like a horde of angry bees protecting their nest. The airship itself had ceased its descent to keep the height advantage.

Better watch out, Jazz thought to keep his calm, these guys are smarter than I thought. The _Damocles_ was still vulnerable so he had to keep them away, not waste time trying to destroy them. Like a matador before a whole herd of charging bulls, Jazz arced the Valiant through a wide curve in front of the approaching swarm of Spook fighters and lured them away.

'Right, laddie, ye think ye can make a pass o'er the hangar in about fifteen seconds?' came Walter over the radio.

'Why?' hesitated Jazz, with bullets ricocheting off his tail.

'We just thought yer friends might enjoy the show. From up close.'

With a grin splitting his face in two, Jazz rolled into a steep dive straight for the cavernous hangar. 'Gotcha, will do. I'm right on time.'

'Oh, lest I forget, ye have three seconds once you're o'er the doors. After that… Well, just make sure ye're clear by then.'

'Come again?!'

Before Walter could answer, the night lit up as if noon had suddenly arrived. Jazz felt it before he could hear it. His plane was suddenly in a world of thunder and turbulence. It was shoved away from the hangar by an invisible shockwave that made every joint in the Valiant groan and creak. The flock of enemy planes behind him was caught by a mountainous fireball that flared up out of the ground and swallowed them whole.

Fighting to keep his plane under control, Jazz managed to stay clear of the carnage of detonations and fire being disgorged by the underground base. From the corner of his eye, he saw the old farmhouse going up in the air as the explosions reached the main elevator shaft. Jazz thumbed the radio.

'I have to admit, guys, great job. Just a little more warning next time, if you don't mind.'

'We aim to please,' came the reply, positively dripping with smugness.

The Valiant didn't sound good at all. Her engine was stuttering and jet black smoke billowed after him. Scanning the area, Jazz tried to get a fix on the enemy airship. Again the Spooks had put their time to good use. With her fighters carbonized, their only available option left was to head off the _Damocles_. The Spooks tried everything to get above her, but the pirate zeppelin managed to climb just enough in time. Only a few more seconds and they would be level, one rising, the other descending and both too low to launch fighters. There was no other choice; the Firebirds would have to confront the Spooks ship to ship. Jazz knew what they had to do and immediately gave the orders. The mechanical whine of broadside cannon hatches sliding open sounded through the night sky. It was all or nothing now.

The _Roswell_ was first to open fire. One after the other, her massive guns boomed. The _Damocles_ immediately returned fire. The opposing flanks of the zeppelins became obscured as the sky between the two aerial juggernauts filled with smoke and thunder. Flashes of light glared and died away during the defilade. Jazz's knuckles went white squeezing the Valiant's stick as he was forced to watch and wait to see who would win this clash of titans.

The last of the cannons went quiet and Jazz' heart sank as he spotted the bow of the _Roswell_ breaking through the smoke first. The airship continued its descent and - no, that wasn't right. He craned his neck to see better. Instead of just one gasbag gone, the Spook zeppelin was now missing three in total and actually plummeted towards the ground with her stern engulfed in flames.

The _Damocles_ didn't get out of the fight unscathed either. Amazingly enough her gasbags survived, although they showed several punctures. Three engines were destroyed, along with an equal number of turrets and two broadside cannons were smashed to bits. A gaping hole in her flank showed internal fires raging through the gondola. In contrast to the _Roswell_ however, the _Damocles_ continued her climb to safety. Jazz let out a breath of air he didn't know he was holding. They were safe. The Spooks were either destroyed or powerless to pursue.

'Open up, I'm coming in.' he radioed and finally dared to relax for the first time since they launched to get to the president of the People's Collective.


	16. Chapter 16 Chasing Mat'Rossiya

**Chapter 16 Chasing _Mat'Rossiya_**

Outside Marty's office the racket of hammering, pneumatic ratchets and people shouting instructions to and fro gew into pandemonium. Inside, however, Jason sat calmly on the edge of Marty's desk with his arms folded. The huge desk was completely covered with maps instead of its usual litter of inventory forms and technical diagrams. Across him, each of the Firebirds had made themselves comfortable on the worn leather couch or threadbare arm chairs. Jason enjoyed the informal atmosphere of the chief mechanics office to hold mission briefings. Amidst the frenzy of activity aboard the _Damocles_, Marty's office always remained a haven of tranquility. It also freed up the original Russian briefing room to have a well-stocked bar on board.

After spending hours of toiling to get the _Damocles_ back into something resembling shipshape, the Firebirds found themselves in calmer airspace at last. The fires were put out, leaks were patched, repairs were made, loot was stowed and the first shift had managed to prepare a late night dinner to keep their strengths up. Even though they were out of immediate danger, there was no guarantee it could change in a heartbeat. There were a lot of miles to cover to get them out of the Industrial States of America and into friendlier skies. Relatively friendlier anyway, they were pirates after all and thus outlawed from coast to coast. Not to mention the never ending threat of rival pirates. Yet the crew was used to those kind of perils; that wasn't the problem. It was their next mission that preoccupied them; hanging over everybody's head like a dark rain cloud just waiting to burst.

To maintain an appearance of business as usual, Jason started off the meeting as he always did.

'Okay, Marty, where are we?'

The bulking figure of their chief engineer leaned over his desk and straightened out a rolled up map of North America's east coast.

'Currently heading due east going at top speed, which is about sixty miles an hour,' he said without looking up, 'It's actually a good thing it's night time. As soon as we cleared the cloud cover, I was able to take an accurate sighting with my trusty old sextant. At the moment we're about fifty miles north west of Marietta, formerly Ohio.'

'Still in the Industrial States then,' said Jason, 'How long until we reach the border of Appalachia?'

Marty pointed over his shoulder with his thumb towards the maintenance bay.

'All engines are running at full speed. I'm having the maintenance boys lashing a few of the new spares onto makeshift pylons. In an hour or so we'll have sixteen props instead of twelve pushing this old lady along. Should shave a nice part off the flight time. Reckon we'll be there in about four hours or so. Should be dawn tomorrow.'

'And the _Mat'Rossiya_?' asked Patrick.

'Can't really tell. As far as we know the Spooks lost track of her. I guess they could be anywhere by now.'

'How in blazes could the Spooks lose an airship that size?' said Walter aloud.

'What do you mean?' said Margaret.

'C'mon, them buggers got all those fancy planes an' strike zeppelins. They found us, but they never found the Russians. How can that be? Somehow they got out o' range in a right matter o' minutes.'

'Impossible,' said Marty, 'an airship that size can move at a decent pace, but never that fast.'

'Except that they wouldn't have to be fast, would they?' said Jason, 'All they would have to do was… climb.'

'You mean they just rose up? They'd be spotted!' said Antoinette.

'Not if they climbed high enough. Remember when we stole, sorry, I mean when we _acquired_ the _Damocles_? We slipped aboard at night, locked up the crew in their quarters and simply let her rise high enough to get the crew unconscious from lack of oxygen. We were up so high nobody could see us from the ground. I bet those Bolsheviks are doing the very same thing. Their zeppelin is easily big enough to be pressurised.'

Patrick whistled low. 'A zep with her entire gondola pressurized. That would explain a thing or two. For starters how they came out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly. It must be hydrogen filled, though. That big and still being able to climb that fast can't be done with helium. Those Russians are flying in the world's biggest incendiary bomb ever built.'

'Well, that doesn't matter, does it?' said Margaret, 'All they need is stay up there and drop fighters that have the height advantage already!'

'Okay, so they're somewhere up high. We still don't know where they went,' said Nora.

The crew fell silent at this. It was impossible to tell where their foe had taken off to. Marty turned and stared outside the window of his office, plucking his eyebrow.

'Anything on your mind, Marty?' Jason said.

'A long shot. A very long shot, but… did any of you use beeper-seeker rockets when you fought off the Russian attack?'

'I did,' said Margaret, 'I know nobody else uses them, but I'm a dead shot with the beeper. Why do you ask?'

'Well, a beeper rocket is nothing more then a simple radio beacon with a barbed hook, right? The rocket smashes into the plane so the tip gets lodged inside the fuselage while the rest breaks off. Most of the time the pilot doesn't even realize he's got a transmitter onboard guiding in all the seeker rockets homing in on its signal.'

'Yeah, so what's your point?'

'Well, who says it only works with seekers? Margaret, did you actually hit any of them with a beeper?'

'Yes, I think so. Things happened kind of fast and I was shot down before I could launch any seekers.'

'Great, so there's actually a small chance that your beeper is still there, beeping away somewhere inside the launch bay of that monstrous zeppelin of theirs.'

'Are you sure about this? I mean, even the term "long shot" falls short for this one,' said Patrick, one eyebrow raised.

'It's worth a shot anyway,' interrupted Jason as he turned to face his crew, 'Okay folks, time to hit the sack. We haven't had a decent night's sleep for a long time and something tells me we're going to need it. Marty, I wish I could say the same to you, but we really need that signal.'

'That's okay,' Marty smiled, 'Never had much use for sleep anyway. It distracts me from work.'

Daylight was nothing more then a hint of indigo on the black horizon outside Jason's port hole when an iron grip around his leg pulled him from his bed.

'Wake up, you lazy bum, come on!'

'Wha'? Who? Whazzappening?' His voice was hardly more then a sleep-drunken slur.

Lights were switched on, needling straight into Jason's unsuspecting eyes. He could dimly make out his chief engineer randomly grabbing clothes strewn about the floor of his quarters.

'Gah, Marty? Is that you? What the hell are you doing?'

'Come on, I've got to show you!' urged Marty and shoved the pile of clothes into Jason's arms. Shaking his head to drive out the heavy sleep still pressing down on his eyelids, Jason dressed quickly before hurrying after the Dutchman. He caught up with the man just as they reached the forward ladder going up to the bow of the _Damocles_.

'Marty, will you tell me what the hell is going on?' demanded Jason as they climbed in a furious pace.

'Remember what we talked about last night? About the beeper rocket? answered Marty.

'Yeah, sure. What about it?'

'Follow me.'

As they reached the top, Wilco Babcock stood waiting for them next to the forward rocket launcher. A telescope was set up on the now crowded little platform. A warm memory of standing there only a week ago, alone with Alicia, was mercilessly blown away by an icy gale. It knifed deep into Jason's skin and he immediately wished he'd put on warmer clothing.

'Marty, it's freezing! This better be worth it,' Jason said, raising his voice to be heard above the wind.

'Your prayers have been answered, Mr pirate,' Babcock answered full of glee, while he made minute adjustments. 'Take a look.'

Jason bowed to put his eye to the telescope. At first he saw nothing but a smudgy darkness dotted with faint pinpricks of starlight. One of the smudges moved. What looked like stars became illuminated windows and suddenly Jason was looking at the _Mat'Rossiya_ caught the early morning sunlight.

'Unbelievable, you did it! You found the bastards!'

'Yep,' said Marty, 'We used two radio receivers, one on the bow, one on the stern, to triangulate their position. Babcock helped me out. Guess he's not completely useless after all.'

The scientist made a face, but kept silent. In the company of Marty, the man's demeanour had changed overnight.

'Just don't fall overboard in a joyous ecstasy yet; they're still hundreds of miles away. Besides, we're about as high up as we can without oxygen, which is ten thousand feet and they're at least thirty thousand feet higher. But that's not even the strangest. Those Bolsheviks are some clever little devils. They've been flying due south at a regular cruise altitude for the entire night and now they're simply using the wind to sail to wherever they're going.'

'Which is?' said Jason, whose teeth were on the verge of chattering.

'The wind, or jet stream actually, is pushing them north by north west at the moment. That course should bring them to nothing special for the next eight hours. Untill they reach…'

The big man hesitated.

'Except what? Hurry up, I'm freezing!'

Marty's everlasting smile disappeared from his face. 'The Empire State. They're heading straight for the Empire State.

'Didn't you say the last remnant of your so-called secret nuclear program was there?' Jason asked Babcock.

'Yes, except they already have all the information they need. It sounds more like they want to test the end result and get rid of the competition at the same time,' answered the scientist.

'An attack? You think they'll try and take on the Broadway Bombers?' Jason scratched his stubble in disbelief.

'They won't need to. Look Jason, I never got involved with atomics, except once and never since. I have good reasons for that. You don't know what kind of horror that stuff holds. It has the power of a thousand tons of dynamite while at the same time it can kill you slowly with an invisible, near unstoppable force, rotting your body away from you. All they have to do is stay up there and drop it onto the city like an angry god's wrath.'

Marty's words made Jason remember counsilor Morrow's words about an angel hurling a censer filled with fire down to earth. He wondered if the man realised just how close he'd been to the truth.

'I'm afraid, he's right, 'said Babcock with downcast eyes, 'We started the research thinking we found the ultimate energy source. One that could supply the entire world cheap, so there wouldn't be any need to fight over it. But now… now it's turned into a weapon, just like any other invention, no matter how good the intentions. In the end, it's always used to destroy.'

Jason regarded the implication for a minute. 'Yeah, scientists have the tendency to not look beyond their laboratories. But no matter how brutal that single act would be, it would only be the beginning. We're the only ones who know about this, right? So without us, nobody would know it'd be the Russians behind it all. They'll fly away untouched with the world's most powerful weapon still in their hand and their hands alone, while all hell breaks loose in North America. Right now the bigger nations keep eachother in check. The I.S.A. in the north, the Nation of Hollywood in the west, Texas and the Confederation of Dixy in the south and the Empire State in the east. With even one of them gone, the others'll have an all out war before you can say "There goes the neighbourhood." And a lot of other countries would be mighty interested too. You remember those sleek German planes we spotted last month? Or those pesky Mexican pirates? I'm betting the Russians are planning to simply wait it out, let everybody tear each other to shreds trying to get control, then waltz right in and take over. Hell, that zeppelin of theirs is an invasion force all on its own. The Great War would be a bar room brawl compared to this mess.'

The three of them fell silent again.

'Can we still get to them?' Jason asked finally.

Marty's smile reappeared on his face. 'Follow me.'

Marty led Jason through the maintenance area bordering on the launch bay, carefully side-stepping the pieces of equipment and machinery that littered every square inch of workspace. Nearby, a dozen of the former Russian crew was frantically constructing the last of the extra engine pylons. Sparks flew off welding torches and grinding noises vibrated from several lathes as the men fabricated the necessary parts from raw materials. One sizeable corner of the workspace was furnished to serve as Marty's personal mechanical laboratory. A grubby canvas covered something tall standing upright in the middle of the room. With visible pride, Marty grabbed a corner and hauled it off to unveil his creation.

The sight in front of him reminded Jason all too much of the time when the Firebirds had watched a stolen copy of the movie _Frankenstein_. Boris Karloff starred as the deformed monster of a man created by a mad scientist and Jason distinctly remembered Marty enthusiastically discussing the necessary equipment needed and how to build it.

Now he felt as if he were standing in the laboratory of dr Frankenstein himself. There, in the middle of the workspace, four cylindrical shapes stood side by side. One end was conical; the other sported small fins. What looked like tiny wings jutted out in the middle. They somewhat resembled the aerial torpedo's the Firebirds carried on zeppelin runs, except they were easily four times as large.

'I'm asking you this while I'm already sure I don't even want to know,' said Jason hesitantly, 'but what the hell did you do to those aerial torpedoes?'

Marty beamed. 'Remember when I told you a couple of days back about the experiments we conducted with a new kind of aerial torpedo? Well, this is the latest version. Not only did we fit them with a seeker steering mechanism, we even managed to expand the fuel storage dramatically. With the range on these babies, we can take down any zep from a perfectly safe distance. Just one of those puppies can easily reach the _Mat'Rossiya_ if we tune it to the frequency of the beeper inside it!'

Jason said nothing; he just raised one eyebrow and stared Marty straight in the eyes until the coin dropped.

'Of course, blowing the whole thing up is probably a bad thing, right?' the big engineer added meekly.

'Yes, Marty,' Jason said as he patted the big man on the shoulder, 'Blowing up the Bolsheviks with cross-bred aerial torpedoes, taking Alicia, and let's not forget our money, with them fits nicely into the bad things category. However, you did make me thinks of something. Do you recall when we raided that luxury cruiser in the Gulf of Mexico? I tried to fire a rocket, but it stuck to my wing.'

'Of course. If the coupling hadn't broken at the last possible moment I wouldn't be standing here talking to you. Had a hard time fixing the wing root structure too. Makes you glad a Devastator has a pair of extra wings, right?'

'I sure am, but here's the thing. I distinctly remember the huge force of that rocket pulling at the wing, sending the whole plane into a wild tailspin. Afterwards I thought that if only I had two of those on each side, pushing at the same time, I'd have the fastest plane ever. Before blowing up anyway.'

'You mean rocket boosters? There have been some experiments to that effect, yes,' replied Marty. Suddenly his eyes widened and he jerked towards Jason, pointing towards the four shapes dominating the room.

'Tell me you're not seriously considering using _those_ as boosters!'

'Why not? You said so yourself they're easily capable of reaching the _Mat'Rossiya_. Maybe the four of them can let me ride piggyback on their way up there.'

'Because it's mad!' Marty cried out, 'It's impossible! It's way too dangerous! Maybe in theory, yes. It could work. At least, the experiments showed it's possible. Only a few adjustments. Probably nothing to worry about. We can do this! It's brilliant!'

'Great, hook those things up to the _Shady Lady_ and give me sign as soon as we're in range.'

Marty's face fell, his previous zeal now making way for caution. 'Your own plane? Are you sure? I mean, she's not made for that kind of altitude. Jason, please, use the _Plane Crazy_ instead; the Firebrand is built to fly as high as thirty thousand feet, a Devastator only reaches twenty!'

'No,' Jason cut him off, 'It has to be the _Shady Lady_. I will not trust any other plane for something as important as this. You can help her along a bit, can't you? She'll need a supercharger, oxygen supply, stuff to keep her functioning up there.'

He looked back into the dim launch bay and sighed. His beloved plane hung motionless, untroubled by the industriousness around her, while shadows caressed her boisterous paintjob.

'Don't worry,' said Marty laying his hand on Jason's shoulder, 'We'll take care of her.'

With all engines roaring at full speed, including the newly added ones, it still took the _Damocles_ the better part of seven strenuous hours to get within range. It was cold inside, so cold the crew breathed out clouds into the thin air that smelled of ice. The Firebirds flew their zeppelin as high as they dared without a pressure cabin. Feeling slightly lightheaded and nauseous, everybody wore thick woolen clothing to keep warm. In spite of any psysical discomfort, Marty and his crew of mechanics slavered away feverishly, preparing the _Shady Lady_ for her impossible mission to save Alicia Vanderlubsen.

With a satisfied clank, Marty closed the cowling on the big Tornado engine. It was even bigger now that they were finished with it. The fighter plane still hung from the launch crane near the maintenance area. Wringing his oil-stained hands clean with an even more oil-stained rag from his coverall pocket, the big Dutchman turned towards the cockpit.

'Is she ready?' Jason asked as he strapped himself in.

'All done. Just performed the final inspection myself,' Marty replied as he continued to check the canopy latches. The plane he just modified to the very extremes of known aerodynamics had to be in nothing less then perfect condition. There was no room for error.

'Cannibalized a supercharger and nitrous injection from the Spook plane. The rest of it was pretty much shot to pieces anyway. It'll give her a service ceiling of at least twenty seven thousand feet. After that you need to use the torpedoes for propulsion. We replaced the oil with special high-altitude stuff that won't freeze up on you. You, however, will still need your Long Johns for this trip, because it's going to be mighty cold up there. We're talking minus thirty degrees Fahrenheit here. Improvised an oxygen system with parts from the _Plane Crazy_ herself. The hard part was to find room in the fuselage, so we took out one of the sixty calibers.

Jason was about to object, but Marty already had his hand up to stop him.

'Don't give me that look. It's a matter of available hull space and you know it. It was the only way. She's pretty heavy as it is and it's not like you'll be able to dogfight much at those altitudes anyway. Last but not least, we strengthened the center rocket hard-points and removed the others to save more weight. You need the entire burn of each of the four seeker-torpedoes, fired successively. That means that once you burned one up, you need to drop it to save weight again. We calculated that the best way to approach the zeppelin is from the top, where the gasbags block the radar waves. A simple job of climbing as high as you can with the engine, then use the rockets to propel yourself up and over the zep and finally glide her in. The sheer size of the _Mat'Rossiya_ should give you ample room to land.'

'That simple, huh?' sighed Jason.

'That's plan A, yes,' replied Marty.

'Is there a plan B?'

'Plan B comes into effect immediately after plan A fails. It involves a lot of flowers and a headstone. Never mind plan B.'

'Yet does plan A account for the fact that I'll be flying straight into the worlds largest and most heavily armed battle zeppelin with nothing more then a single sixty caliber machine gun and a nine millimeter pistol?'

'No, that would be covered by reality. May I remind you that it was your idea to do this in a small single engine fighter? You could've taken my Firebrand, or even Nora's Warhawk.'

'Hah! No way I'd let him mess up my plane!' called a voice from the catwalks circling the launch bay.

'Thanks for the vote of confidence!' returned Jason.

'Just make sure you also avenge our bar, mon cherie. I just found out those damn Spooks put a broadside cannon shell right through my liquor stash!'

'Will do, Antoinette!'

'So, you ready?' Marty asked.

'I was born ready,'

'I thought you were born naked and crying.'

'Except for the naked part, that's exactly what I mean,' Jason said with a wry smile and slammed the canopy shut.

Marty returned the smile and climbed down the ladder to join the rest of the Firebirds standing on the catwalk, waiting to send their leader off. Even Babcock was there, looking more out of place then ever wearing a leather flight jacket four sizes too big.

The only pirate missing was Patrick. Silently, he stood alone in the operator's booth near the launch doors. Usually one of the non-flying crew would man the booth, opening and closing the doors, operating the launch crane and releasing the planes. For this mission Patrick wanted to make sure everything went flawless, so he operated the controls himself to open the bay doors and transport the launch crane along its track from the maintenance area to its launch position. As the _Shady Lady_ trundled past, Patrick suddenly felt as if he were a real undertaker, ready to drop his friend into an ice-cold grave from which there was no return. His stomach turned as Jason gave him a cheery wave from inside his winged coffin.

_Best to get this over with_, he thought,_ Let the man do what needs doing._ Forcing himself to give his friend a thumbs up, he pushed the launch button and watched Jason drop into the void.


	17. Chapter 17 Trial By Fire

**Chapter 17 Trial By Fire**

The _Shady Lady_'s snug cockpit shaking and rattling around him and the rocket engine beneath him roaring like a tortured dragon made Jazz think of his earlier escape from the Spooks underground headquarters. The same absence of horizon and rush of air; the same invisible and God-like force in his back pushing him upwards. There were notable differences however. For one, he could clearly see where he was going. The far-off silhouette of the _Mat'Rossiya_ shimmered in and out of focus through the bone-jarring shudder of his nimble fighter plane. Another difference was the lack of a strictly perpendicular trajectory. His wings offered just enough lift for most of the journey; it was only a matter of propulsion at an altitude where the air didn't contain enough oxygen for the engine. The solution for this problem was as simple as it was daring; four seriously altered aerial torpedoes, basically big rockets with wings and a rudimentary steering mechanism controlled by a radio receiver, were strapped to the plane's underside. Each would carry him part of the climb, all of them heading straight for Margaret's beeper rocket stuck inside a Russian fighter stowed somewhere aboard the Russian battle fortress. All he had to do was to pull back on the stick and a graceful arc would bring him above and behind the mountain of hydrogen, aluminum and canvas that was the _Mat'Rossiya_.

As suggested by Walt, Jazz kept the noon sun in his back. It gave him the best chance of approaching the super-zep undetected, neither from lookouts, nor from the devious radar installation located at the front. At least, that was the plan based on what they could see through the telescope. Right now, forcing his lunch to stay put, Jazz cared little for stealth and strategy. Getting there, and in one piece to boot, was all he dared to hope for.

The thrust in his back faltered, telling Jazz his current aerial torpedo was nearing the end of its fuel. Quickly reaching for the jury-rigged control panel taped to the glare shield of his control panel, he released the exhausted rocket and fired the next in line. The thrust returned in all its gut-squashing force.

Even though Jazz' mind was hell-bent on keeping his plane on course, thoughts of what he hoped to find popped into his head nonetheless. Somewhere on that gargantuan floating fortress was Alicia, a girl that had grown on him, becoming more then he was willing to admit to her, to his crew, even to himself. He had started this risk-all, lose-all mission boisterous and joking about his aversion to saving the peace of entire North America without the certainty of a good profit. Maybe that was still part of it, but he suspected every single one of his crew, man and woman, knew better. Jason glanced outside to where the brilliant sun glittered off the _Shady Lady_'s flamboyant paintjob before his thoughts finished themselves.

He was Alicia's knight in shining armor and that was all there was to it. He would swoop in and save his damsel in distress. Without Alicia, he still would have done it, of course. If only for saving the millions of innocent lives of New York. Or for his money. Hell, he would probably have done it just to get back at those Russian bastards Oleg and Sergei. With Alicia, however, all that was just secondary mission. It was so romantic it was almost comical. He'd laugh out loud if he wasn't strapped to hundreds of pounds of highly volatile rocket fuel on fire. As Jazz concentrated on flying again, his attention was caught unexpectedly by a jet of light entering his vision from below.

'Marty, this is Jazz, come in,' he radioed the _Damocles_ over the secure frequency.

'Go ahead, Jazz,' came Marty's Dutch accented confirmation, 'Everything all right?'

'Funny thing, really. That last torpedo I jettisoned is actually flying ahead of me, instead of doing what good old Newton promised.'

'Ah, I see. Nothing to worry about there. Must be a bit of left over fuel that rekindled. Without your weight to push it'll fly ahead of you, but it'll soon run out completely. How are you doing?'

'I'm pushing forty thousand feet and my engine stalled ten thousand feet lower. Also, I'm breathing from a bottle and it's colder here then last night's coffee. It's becoming difficult to steer in this thin and weak excuse for an atmosphere. It's a good thing those torpedoes are wired to home in on that beeper aboard. I'm nearly level with the Russki's, but this is my last one. After that, it's all or nothing.'

'Got it. And, uhm, back here we were just thinking.' Static crackled gently during an unexpected pause. 'If we don't… if you… I mean, if we lose track for some reason, we just wanted to say that we've always been kind of proud to be a Firebird. And that, you know, without you we'd probably be off a lot worse.'

'Oh, put a sock in it before I start weeping and overshoot the bastards,' said Jazz and killed the radio link, before anybody could hear him swallow the heavy lump rising up to block his throat.

The next phase of his journey towards the _Mat'Rossiya_ saved him from entertaining too grave a thought about his chances of survival. Nearing the apex of her climb, the _Shady Lady_ resembled no more then a gnat chasing an elephant. Jason used the last bit of rocket fuel left in his one remaining aerial torpedo to navigate an angle of approach level to the top of the titanic airship looming before him. Jazz braced himself for the glide onto enemy territory. He checked his airspeed and horizontal situation indicator one last time, then pressed the jettison button to drop the torpedo. As soon as the thrust of the anti-zeppelin missile fell away, the _Shady Lady_ dropped like a stone and Jazz tasted his lunch in the back of his throat despite his earlier efforts. He moved the stick with barely a response from the thin air. _Oh crap_, he thought, _this isn't flying. This is crashing at 40.000 feet!_

Draining him of every ounce of piloting ability he possessed, Jazz managed to keep the helpless fighter pointed in what was more or less the right direction. Just after he lowered his landing gear, another bright flare appeared in front of him. He thumbed the radio immediately.

'Marty, that last torp is also still flying after release,' Jazz urged through clenched teeth and with sweat freezing on his brow.

'Yeah, we can see it through the telescope. Like I said, don't worry about it.'

'Right, remember when we went through all the modifications you made on the _Shady Lady_? You told me you didn't have time to modify the torpedoes too.'

'Yes, yes, I guess I did.'

'So that means they're still intact?'

'I suppose so. Jazz, why are we talking about this?'

'Because the damned thing is heading straight for that hydrogen filled monstrosity with a live warhead!'

Before Marty could even respond, the stubborn rocket disappeared into the back of the gondola hanging from the enormous zeppelin hulls lashed together. For a split second, Jazz thought it must have been a dud, or perhaps the missile had missed and shot underneath the zep. A flash of light, followed by an expanding ball of fire dismissed any further speculation. The explosion obliterated a large section of the gondola's aft bulkhead, aided by the pressurized atmosphere forcing its way out. Jazz' attention snapped back to the dull green of the left hand gasbag blocking his view as it rose up with terrifying speed. Flying on primal instinct, he kept the _Shady Lady_ level, all the while keeping one terrified eye on his vertical speed.

The otherwise so graceful fighter plane smacked into the upper surface of the _Mat'Rossiya_ with all the elegance of a dead duck. A lack of armor gave the reinforced canvas a last touch of elasticity, otherwise the landing gear would have been rammed straight through the wings, ripping them off the hull and disintegrating the entire plane. Instead, the _Shady Lady_ bounced back up, once, before crashing down again. Jason was thrown around violently inside the small cockpit. There was a loud crack. Stars exploded and black spots welled up in his vision. The nose dipped too low to for the landing gear to be in one piece, but Jazz was already sinking away in a cold black nothingness.

The first sensation coming back to him was a single spot of warmth on his forehead, amidst the cold that permeated the rest of his body. When he touched it, the tips of his flight gloves came back bright red. Groggily, Jason watched it freeze before his very eyes. Only then did he spot the blood on the cracked glass of the altimeter.

A sudden tremor traveled through the hull of the super-zep and snapped him back to full attention. His sense of time had skipped a beat, for he couldn't tell how long he'd been out. He checked his oxygen bottle. It showed the needle frightfully close to the red, indicating less than five minutes air left. Without hesitation, Jason slid the canopy open and the full force of the cold clawed him in the face despite his oxygen mask and goggles. Outside the rumble of the explosion died away in the thin air like a moaning ghost.

Jazz leaped out of the cockpit, carrying his oxygen bottle under his arm. A brisk wind added tens of degrees to the wind chill factor. He estimated he would start to lose muscle control from hypothermia even before his oxygen ran out. The dark blue sky was clear of clouds above the upper hull of the _Mat'Rossiya_. Steel cables, three hundred feet long and thick as his forearm, ran from this side to the other hull, pulled so taut the wind made them sing. Frost covered machine gun turrets jutted out here and there like statue guardians. Not a single hatch was in sight.

He had brought his plane down near the bow of the right hand zeppelin hull, precariously close to where the slope of the canvas became too steep. A few feet further and he would have been plummeting head first into the deep before his mission even properly started. First thing to check was the forward landing gear. Jason cringed as he found what he already suspected. It was completely torn off and the _Shady Lady_ rested upon her nose which was otherwise remarkably undamaged. Looking back the way he had come in on his reckless approach, he quickly spotted the cause. Fifty feet back, the nose gear stuck out of the remnants of a machine gun turret, which had snapped it clean off but passed harmlessly between the aft landing gear.

Still reeling from the blow to his head and the strong wind, Jason staggered towards the crumpled metal box. It was heavily damaged and he tried to pry the cover open with his hands. It gave a few inches, then refused to budge another inch. Despite his thick leather gloves, his fingers already refused to work as he wanted them to. Acting on impulse, Jason sat down and kicked as hard as he could. The first kick did absolutely nothing and neither did the second. An overriding numbness crept up from his feet and into his legs. The little needle on the oxygen bottle now stood well inside the red zone as if challenging him to draw another hollow breath. Feeling dizzier by the moment, he realized it was all coming to an end one way or the other.

Another quake ran along the hull and Jason fancied the metal of the turret twitching. It granted him a last dose of adrenaline, so he clenched his teeth and forced his legs to obey on sheer willpower. He pulled back and kicked at the twisted metal one more time. With a metallic shriek the armored cover finally snapped free and tumbled away over the edge and into the unfathomable depths below.

The hole revealed a wooden seat for a gunner, now empty, and an abandoned ammunitions box. Set into one side of the compartment was a low riveted hatch. Jason half fell, half climbed into the turret, grateful that the cold numbed the pain at least. Inside was a little better now he was sheltered from the wind, but still his limbs seemed filled with concrete. To his relief the hatch was unlocked, yet opening it offered no escape. Breath after empty breath chafed his throat and clouded his mind.

Fighting off the panic ice climbing his spine, Jason crawled into the shadows beyond the opening. He ended up between two mountainous gasbags and nearly fell into the access shaft reaching down into the darkness. He caught sight a dull copper shine. It made him chuckle despite his desperate situation.

Sliding down too fast for safety, it occurred to Jason's half conscious mind that the fireman's pole he clung to was indeed a simple and easy way to travel from the upper surface back down in a hurry when called upon in case of an emergency. Especially when traveling inside a flying fortress held aloft by millions of cubic tons of highly flammable hydrogen.

Light rushed up to meet him. Jason barely managed to slow down his descent and he dropped onto the metal grated floor like a slab of meat. For a frightful second his vision disappeared. He didn't even know if anything was broken; his whole body was senseless. His vision was almost fully dark, except for straight ahead. Breathing was torture.

He didn't know if he was actually fumbling with the latch on some door or simply hallucinating it, when a blast of hot air suddenly hit him in the face. It took a few moments before taking effect, but finally his head cleared and Jason found himself lying half way through a door leading into an industrially lit corridor. Stale air rushed past him into the dark access shaft as he hauled deep breaths into his burning lungs. Pulling his legs over the threshold before anybody would notice the pressure leak, Jason tumbled into the corridor and slammed the door shut. Still catching his breath, he stood up with buckling knees and tried stretching arms and legs that were already starting to hurt like hell as blood circulation started up again. He didn't think there was any frostbite, but the pain would be really nasty for a while.

A Russian soldier came running around the corner and skidded to a halt at the sight of him. The young man was dumbstruck to discover an American pilot smack in the middle of Russia's most secret military outpost.

'Izvinite, tovarishch,' said Jason with a smile and then knocked the soldier out cold. He dragged the man into a nearby closet and tied him, making sure there was no way he could sound any alarm. Meanwhile, the intercom provided ample information. Apparently, his entrance had gone by unnoticed, because the aerial torpedo provided a spectacular, albeit unintentional diversion. There was a serious fire in the port side maintenance bay, something about a cowardly attack from a distant zeppelin and a general call for all hands to station.

Jason's mood improved considerately. The Russians must have spotted the _Damocles_ by now and suspected the aerial torpedo to be a single weapon intended to destroy them. The panic and chaos aboard would form an excellent cover for him to move around. As long as the whole thing didn't blow up, of course.

Abandoning his gear, he quickly donned the soldier's plain uniform. It was a tight fit, but then he only had to pass a cursory inspection. Firefighting and repair crews, all with a grim look set upon their faces, bustled about the place. He ran through corridors after corridor, never stopping long enough to get noticed by a superior officer. It didn't take him long before he found what he was looking for. A floor plan tacked to the wall supplied him with all the information he so desperately needed. As he studied the map the intercom announced that the fire had now spread from the workshops to the launch bay. Crew members were told to stand by for ballast transference procedures. Jason shuddered at the thought of what would happen if the fire reached the hydrogen. If he was to rescue Alicia, he'd better hurry.

Jason decided that the brig would be the most promising to start looking for Alicia. Running as fast as he could he managed to reach it without further interruption. From the smoke gently wafting out of overhead vents Jason figured the fire was still spreading. Behind the entrance door another cold corridor stretched away. It held two impatient guards who nearly knocked each other over trying to ask if he was sent to relieve them. Greeting back heartily, he told them everything was under control even though more and more smoke billowed out of the vents. The two young men were anxious for reassurance and repeatedly thanked him.

While Jason talked to them, the quicker of the two spotted the ill-fitting uniform and his pilot boots. Instinctively, he drew his pistol, but he was already within range of a brutal vertical kick. Blood sprayed from the soldier's broken nose as he slumped against the wall. The slower of the two hesitated but for a second. With no time for subtlety left, Jason shot his elbow in the man's face and sent him to the ground quickly and silently.

He rushed from locked door to locked door, calling for Alicia. His heart bounded as she finally replied, shouting for him to come and get her. As soon as he unbolted the door, she jumped into his arms and kissed him square on the lips as if her life depended on it. Letting the world burn down around them for a single intense moment, Jason kissed her back just as fierce and passionate until they finally managed to tear themselves away from each other.

'How did you…?' Alicia started, shock and excitement stealing over her delicate face.

'Never mind, I'll tell you later,' interrupted Jason, 'Right now, we have to get out of here before this oversized blimp goes down and takes us with it. Follow me!'

Alicia followed him out of the prison section, avoiding fire fighting crews and patrols alike. Jason checked the Cyrillic markings every turn until they reached a heavy set door marked 'obsluzhivaniye'. Slipping through, racks of oily tools and heavy equipment lined the wall behind them. They were high up on a suspended walkway that branched off into every direction. They overlooked the huge and dimly lit space of the _Mat'Rossiya_'s launch bay. Jason would never have believed so many planes could be stored aboard one single zeppelin if he wasn't looking with his own eyes at row after row of fighter and bomber planes stretching away into the distance. Opening onto the main hangar were smaller staging areas chock-full of tanks, jeeps and motorized artillery.

_Enough military hardware to lead an entire invasion force, technical installations that allows them to reach unprecedented heights and the ability to spot planes through clouds and darkness and finally a science laboratory advanced enough to produce a bomb that is no less then a doomsday device. The Bolsheviks certainly have big plans!_ Jason thought as he prevented a sigh of desperation.

Peeking out from behind a heavy crane, they spotted thick black smoke at the far end of the launch bay, swirling among the eerie shadows cast by the glare of fire. A crowd of Russian crewmembers frantically tried to stop it from reaching a fueling station, but only managed to slow its progress.

'So what's the plan?' whispered Alicia.

'Pretty much a basic 'Let's get the hell out of here' kind of plan, although I'm still working on some minor details. If only we could get into one of those planes unseen. We might be too high up to launch, but if we can open the bay doors somehow, we can drop down to an altitude where the engine'll start. Or we glide, whatever works. But there are too many people down on the floor.'

Suddenly remembering one of those minor details, he added: 'There's one more thing we have to do before we can leave though.'

'Let me guess, the atomic bomb?'

'You know about that?'

'Well, for one, there they go loading it aboard that plane.'

A team of scientists dressed in their universal garb of long white coats was busy lifting the menacing black bulk of the Russian bomb into the sleek hull of a Polikarpov VIT-2 light bomber. Beside the bomb bay doors and dressed in full flight gear, stood the massive figure of Sergei barking commands at the other men.

'See? Saves us a lot of searching,' said Alicia, 'Wait, where's the other one? The weasel walking on two legs?'

'Behind you, miss Vanderlubsen, behind you,' oozed the syrupy voice of Oleg out of the haze filling up the hangar bay. 'Is nice to see you again. Please relieve yourselves of weapons. It puts strain on conversation, yes?'

Jason did as he was told, but he had a splitting headache, he was exhausted from both his earlier oxygen deprivation and from running through the smoky insides of the _Mat'Rossiya_ and in general had come too far to be stopped by this smug Bolshevik bastard standing in the doorway. The wiry little ace was also dressed in full flight gear. In his one hand he held a pistol; the other clutched the strap of a large duffel bag slung over his narrow shoulder.

'Oleg, buddy, you sure have a talent for sneaking up on people. What do you want? Can't you see the grown ups are talking?'

Oleg smile turned into a snarl that didn't improve his soot-streaked features. 'That whore is no more grown up then you able to understand glorious work of Soviet Union! You ask what I want? I want retribution. I want you begging forgiveness. Not only for life, not only for what you did to me, or to comrades cowardly shot down or to my country, but also on behalf of all pirate scum and all capitalist nations of America!'

Both the volume and pitch of Oleg's monologue rose steadily, matching the spittle raining from his lips. For the first time since they met in Sky Haven Jason could look him in the eyes again. They were crawling with madness.

Oleg, too, seemed to be aware of the onset of his losing self-control. He dropped the duffel bag and ran a shaking hand through his lank hair, pulling himself together.

'Of course,' he said, returning to his horrible parody of a smile, 'Is too much to hope for simple and patriotic communist like me.'

He turned to Alicia, 'I am sorry, miss Vanderlubsen. Even after refusing such undeserved offer, first plan was release you. I was returning you to Empire State… tied to atomic bomb!'

Oleg laughed at his own private joke a little too loud as his nerves were still on the verge of breaking. Jason readied himself to lunge at the Russian, but Oleg was still very much on his guard.

'Do not try funny stuff, mister Grant. You have only delayed fate of cesspool of decadence and wickedness below. They will be cleansed by atomic fire of _Ustrojstvo_! Nothing can stop us, not even you. But you set fire to _Mat'Rossiya_! Why did you do that? Are you crazy?!'

_Crazy like a fox, maybe, but you're not all that far from the real deal, buddy, _thought Jason. _Thank God for megalomaniacs and their compulsion for monologues._

Seizing upon the chatty mood of the anxious Oleg, he angled for more information.

'Let's just say it seemed like a good idea at the time,' he shrugged, trying not to look at the clouds of smoke now steadily closing in around them.

'Good idea?! You have any "good idea" what happens if fire reaches gasbags? Only way to save life was deflating gasbags. You made us dump millions of tons of hydrogen just to stay alive. Four whole sections depressurized and fire still dangerous.'

Jason had a hunch where this was going.

'I get it. We're sinking, aren't we? The winds are different down here, so I'm betting you drifted off course. That's why you're loading up your little firecracker in that bomber down there. You're forced to deliver it to the city yourself.'

'Correct,' replied Oleg testily, 'I am true patriot, I gladly sacrifice own blood for glorious Soviet cause.'

'I guess even a mushroom cloud has a silver lining. Although I never thought you'd have the guts for a suicide run,' spat Alicia.

'That's because he isn't talking about himself,' said Jason calmly, nodding towards the Bolshevik ace.

'Correct again, mister Grant. You see, Sergei is brother. We are inseparable since birth. He supplies muscle, I provide much needed brains, yes? On my word, Sergei flies _Ustrojstvo_ into New York City and detonates without asking!'

The Russian pilot placed one absolving hand on his chest. 'I hate not making ultimate sacrifice myself, but I must bring glorious tale of Sergei to motherland.'

Delighted with the shocked faces of his recaptured prey, Oleg waited patiently for the full horror of his plan to sink in. Smoke hung all around in a soft grey fog, pricking in their throats. Oleg was breathing deeply to calm his nerves until finally the thing Jason had been waiting for happened. It was only a matter of time before Oleg choked and coughed.

Jason darted to his right, mercilessly shouldering Alicia out of harms way, and performed a roundhouse kick. A gunshot hammered their ears. His boot smacked the gun from Oleg's hand, but not before something hot and angry streaked past Jason's face within an inch. A swift hit to the side of his neck should have been enough to finish the short Russian off. Instead Oleg dodged with lightning speed and stomped Jason in his gut. He tried to kick the pirate in the groin too, but Jason was able to block it at the last moment. Oleg seized the moment to jump onto Jason's back and locked his hands around his throat in an attempt to strangle him. Steeling himself against the pain and nausea, the pirate dismissed all the fancy moves he learned in China and opted for a simpler, yet equally effective wrestling move. He arched his back and jumped. Falling on his back, he body slammed the smaller pilot into the floor with all his weight.

The impact knocked the wind clean out of Oleg. With his opponent gasping for air, Jason quickly rolled away and grabbed his Browning. It was his turn to wave a gun around and he planned on doing a lot less talking.

'Right, you miserable little worm, you're coming with us. You're going to make that idiot brother of yours unload that damned bomb.'

Jason expected either a cowardly surrender or stubborn refusal. What he didn't count on was outright laughter.

'Too late! Look, there goes my brave brother! Long live glorious Soviet Union!'

Oleg was right. Jason and Alicia turned around just in time to see the twin engine Polikarpov drop from its launch crane and disappear into the blue sky below the _Mat'Rossiya_. Jason was torn between wanting to kill the weasely Russian right there and then, or pummeling him some more first when a thundering explosion lit up the entire hangar bay and threw everybody off their feet. A storm of smoke blew past them as flames ravaged the lower floor. Jason and Alicia quickly picked themselves up from where the blast sent them sprawling. Oleg was nowhere to be seen, but already Alicia set out to go looking for him above the chaos of burning and exploding airplanes. It was Jason's hand on her shoulder that stopped her.

'Alicia, no!' he said between coughs. 'There's no time! We have to get out of here!'

'No way, that miserable little rat still has something coming!'

'Forget it. That was the fuel storage going up. The fire'll reach the hydrogen any second now. We'll burn to a crisp and so will the Empire State if we don't catch up with Sergei. Let Oleg fry inside this flying funeral pyre.'

'But how? All the planes are destroyed and the launch bay is coming apart!'

Jason grabbed Olegs abandoned duffel bag and grinned, 'Come on, we've got one last chance.'

Alarm bells clamored everywhere while they sprinted along the metal corridors of the Russian super zeppelin. Leading Alicia, Jason prayed he remembered his route correctly. The intercom urged all hands to abandon ship. Russian soldiers ran in every direction like lemmings in a blind panic. Jason had to knock down only three of them who maintained enough calm to recognize them as intruders.

Out of breath they arrived at the foot of the fireman's pole coming down from the upper hull surface. Next to it were small metal rungs welded to the frame that held the gasbags in place. Seconds flashed by like bullets, each one bringing fiery doom closer and closer. The airship began to lurch sideways. Even though this eased their climb, it still felt like ages before they reached the top. At long last fresh air drove away the fumes. Like gophers smoked out of their tunnels, Jason and Alicia clambered out of the mangled turret and onto the drab green hull. Although they never realized it, they were now at a low enough altitude to breathe normally without the aid of oxygen bottles.

'I thought we'd never make it,' Jason said. His breath formed puffs of vapor as he did.

'Could be you're right. Look!'

Jason turned to face the far end of the _Mat'Rossiya_ and looked straight into the mouth of Hell itself. With a roar like nothing on Earth should have the right to sound like, the rear gasbag went up in flames. It did not explode as much as it expanded into a giant wall of fire rising up hundreds of feet, outlining the two puny figures in its infernal light.

'Come on!' yelled Jason and yanked Alicia along. As they ran for the _Shady Lady_, the second gasbag ignited. The whole airborne fortress shook so violently they fell down just short of the airplane. The surface tilted as the rear half of the zeppelin sank. Alicia scrambled to her feet first and hauled Jason up. With one bounding leap they were aboard, not even bothering to close the canopy. Jason worked his plane through a record breaking start up sequence.

'I could be wrong, but aren't we one nose gear short of a take off?' shouted Alicia from the back, trying to be heard over the bellowing roar of another colossal gasbag erupting like a volcano. Half the _Mat'Rossiya_ was now engulfed in flames. The airship began to fall backwards from the loss of buoyancy.

'Details, details,' was all Jason had to say before finally being able to bring his fist down on the starter button. Behind them the supercharged, nitro-injected, twelve-cylinder powerhouse whined, sputtered and died.

'Probably just iced up,' muttered Jason while repeating the start up. The blaze was two-thirds underway, engulfing the twin hulls in a sea of fire. The very air solidified with an unbearable heat. Alicia looked up at the tidal wave of burning hydrogen charging at them. Unbearable heat beat down on them, intense enough to cause smoke rising off the very canvas they were standing on.

'Iced up?' she croaked, 'You have got to be kidding me.'

'This is where we find out of Marty's hot rodding pays off,' warned Jason.

A whine, a sputter, a hiccup and more sputtering. The eight bladed pusher prop turned, stalled and turned.

'Come on, honey, I need you,' urged Jason, his knuckles white around the stick.

The engine hiccoughed one more time before the propeller spun into invisibility with her familiar roar. The Tornado engine redlined as Jason rammed the throttle forward, not caring about the landing gear. The Devastator stayed put as remnants of the forward gear stuck in the metallic canvas. Only a few seconds ago the wall of fire was still at the far end of the zeppelin. Now it rolled towards them with all the heart-stopping speed of an avalanche from Hell.

Creaking and groaning from internal stress under the thrust of the howling engine, the fighter still didn't move. In a blind reflex Jason pressed down on the nitrous injection button and was squashed in his seat as the plane violently ripped itself free, tearing through the canvas along the way. Alicia, still looking backwards, saw a geyser of flames rushing up at them through the gash. The hull disappeared as she closed her eyes, regretting to be incinerated so close to escape.

'All right, baby! I knew you'd come through!' she heard Jason holler. Since her only sensation was her stomach being pushed into her throat and not her skin burning away, she dared opening her eyes a bit.

The _Shady Lady_ tumbled and cartwheeled, toppling from the sky like a swat fly, but at a safe distance from the burning wreckage of the _Mat'Rossiya_. The super-zep dropped down along with them, raining flaming debris onto the ocean below. Jason managed to stabilize into a straight dive and pulled up gently. Taking his bearings, he estimated they were due east of the Empire State, somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean.

'And now for that Russian thug that thinks he ought to kill millions of lives just because some nutcase told him to.'

Banking towards New York, they left the still plummeting and disintegrating hulk of the _Mat'Rossiya_ behind them to start the hunt for Sergei in his bomber.

When the _Shady Lady_ was no more then a speck on the horizon, one piece of debris falling down from the wreckage suddenly pulled up just before smashing into the icy waters of the Atlantic.


	18. Chapter 18 The Big Showdown

**Chapter 18 The Big Showdown**

The afternoon light had grown heavy after Mack and Joey finished hauling their empty nets aboard the _Tally Ho_. The rickety fishing boat chugged against the currents south of Long Beach, while the two men watched the sun tinge everything a soft golden shade. The journey home would take hours still, meaning they'd arrive late in the evening with nothing but an empty hold to show for it. After fishing all day without success, the atmosphere between the two men darkened along with the sky.

'Shoulda kept on going for that spot near Montauk,' started Joey.

'Shut it, awright? Ain't gonna do us no good now,' sneered Mack, 'Besides, you know what they say about that place.'

'All I'm sayin is we better not have another day like this. Is all I'm saying!'

'Yeah? All _I'm_ sayin is: Shut it!'

Silence stretched itself out on the deck of the _Tally Ho_, interrupted only by a distant seagull.

'We wouldn't be in this mess if we'd taken up on that job offer from Mr. Luciano,' ventured Joey, not looking directly at Mack.

'You kiddin me? Smugglin mob business into the city? You know what happens if we get caught? Them Broadway Bombers'll blast us into fish food without a second thought.'

'Come on, Mack. There's loads of other fishermen runnin booze and stuff into the Empire State. You ever seen one get caught way out here? You ever seen a plane come out here looking around, period?'

Forced by weariness, hunger and an empty wallet, Mack was about to admit to his buddy he hadn't, when a low hum reached their ears. With frightening speed the hum swelled into a drone before becoming a thundering roar. A plane appeared out of nowhere. It skimmed the sea just above the waves and headed straight for them. The thrumming of the two radial engines almost split their ears as it shot past, missing them by mere feet. The turbulence of its wake smashed against the _Tally Ho,_ blew out her windows and knocked Mack and Joey overboard and headfirst into the cold Atlantic.

As the two men resurfaced, coughing and shivering, they clung to the nets hanging over the side of their dingy fishing boat. In the distance, the plane curved widely into the Lower New York Bay, oblivious to it's victims.

'Mack,' spluttered a wide-eyed Joey, 'If I ever suggest somethin like that again, would ya please thump me one over the head?'

Tearing through the lazy afternoon air, the S_hady Lady _carried Jazz and Alicia as fast as the aerial pirate could push her. Jazz just got off the radio with the _Damocles_. The Firebirds had been overjoyed when they learned of their safety, but fell silent when he told them about the bomb heading for the city. To their frustration, there was absolutely nothing they could do. They had followed the _Mat'Rossiya_ to her crash site and were now nowhere near enough to be of any assistance. By the time any of their planes would catch up with them, it would all be over.

They were crossing Long Island now, while the towering maze of Manhattan, spiked with its near impossible high buildings, hugged the horizon in front of them. It would be just a few minutes before they'd reach the high rise, but then the real problems began. The first would be to locate a lone bomber over the art deco labyrinth of New York City. Armed with nothing but a single .60 caliber machine gun, taking it down might prove to be another. The kind of problem where, if you fail, 15 million people die.

Gliding past below them, Long Beach glowed with the softening sunlight of the late afternoon. Jazz and Alicia looked out with longing, secretly wishing they could be enjoying themselves on the summer sand instead. It was Alicia who broke the heavy silence.

'Jason?' she said.

'What's up?'

'How are we going to find Sergei? A needle in a haystack seems better odds then this. I can't see him up here and there's no way we can find him down there.'

'That's right. That's because we're not even looking. Not yet, anyway.'

'How come?'

'Sergei'll fly as low as possible to avoid being seen, because if he's spotted, chances are he'll have the Broadway Bombers on his back before you can say "Dobroj nochi". So he's flathatting it over open water all the way to the Big Apple. That means he has to fly due west from the _Mat'Rossiya_, until he reaches Lower New York bay. Then he'll turn north between Staten Island and Kings. We, on the other hand, are directly flying northwest to Manhattan, cutting straight across Queens.'

'But won't the Broadway Bombers come after us instead? How come we're not flying low?'

'Because we're not sitting in some lazy ass bomber. Sergei cannot take any chances. Once they open fire, he's going down fast and he knows it. I bet he has orders to do whatever is necessary to avoid any chances of being seen. As for us, maybe we get spotted, maybe not. I've tussled with the Broadway boys before. In a fair fight, we can take them, but it's more likely they'll outnumber us. Besides, we only have to outrun them long enough to get to Sergei.'

'And you never fight fair, do you?'

'Wouldn't be a pirate if I did,' grinned Jazz.

Looking outside, Alicia saw the shadow of the _Shady Lady_ scattered over the expanse of houses that made up Queens, the largest borough of New York City.

'Okay, but we still don't know where Sergei will go.'

'I'm pretty sure I do, actually. It's Oleg pulling the strings, remember? Sergei only does as he's told. I bet his little brother told him the precise coordinates for the bomb to go off.'

'What makes you say that?' Alicia asked.

'If that bomb really is as powerful as Babcock and Marty say it is, it doesn't really matter where you drop it exactly. The blast alone would still level most of the city and kill more then enough people. Radiation would do the rest. But the Bolsheviks wanted to make a statement, not conquer a big smoldering crater. The bomb has to be detonated in the exact right place to make sure the whole world knows what used to be at the very center of that crater.'

'Well, what is that exact right place then?'

'Tell me, what is the very symbol of the Empire State? The one flapping on their pretty blue flags and defying all other North American nations?'

'Oh my God, you don't mean the… the Empire State Building?' Alicia gasped.

'The one and only. And since Sergei is nothing but a loyal puppy, he'll stay low until the last possible moment. He's probably flying somewhere over the Upper New York Bay by now and after that it's only a few miles up the East River, a sharp turn to the left into 34th street and he'll have it dead in his sights.'

'I hope you're right, Jason, because if you're not…'

'I know, we're all going to have the worst day of our lives.'

'More like the first day of our deaths,' answered Alicia grim.

Underneath them the suburbs gave way to bustling piers and factories belching smoke that clouded the western shore of Brooklyn. Up ahead rose the awe-inspiring skyline of Manhattan, backlit by the sun like a sculpture made of onyx on fire. The sky above it was crawling with the little black specks of air taxi's and other planes making their way around the mighty buildings and the looming bulks of dozens of zeppelins hovering above. The _Shady Lady_ was circling above the east River now, patrolling the area at one thousand feet. They were low enough to see people looking up at the droning noise. They'd better find that bomber soon, because Jazz figured it wouldn't be long before someone spotted the skull and bones insignia on the _Shady Lady_'s tailfins. If that happened the Broadway Bombers would come to take a peek at the intruder and there'd be hell to pay.

'There he is! I see him!' screamed Alicia suddenly and jostled his shoulders to make him look to his lower left. 'There! There! Between those ships!'

Sure enough, gliding gently between two freighters, Sergei's Polikarpov stole his way up the East River. The dark green hull almost merged with the murky river, save for the exhaust flames lighting up the engine nacelles.

'Hold tight, this is it,' Jazz growled, 'This is the one where it counts.'

He pushed the stick and coerced the _Shady Lady_ into a steep curve to shed some altitude and get behind the bomber. With the heavy air traffic above them he estimated the chance to be spotted in return minimal. He followed up on their left turn with an equally steep right one and matched speed with the Polikarpov. Flying above and behind the bomber, they were now in a perfect attack position. Except for the massive .70 caliber autocannon the bomber carried on its back. Even though Jazz was convinced Sergei would be executing this particular mission solo, sweat still ran from his brow as he brought them within range of a gun that could rip through his plane without any trouble.

He held back a few seconds to see if Sergei did anything that betrayed he was onto them. Nothing happened. Up ahead, 34th street was coming up fast.

Going in for the kill, Jazz brought the nose down and sighted the bomber in his crosshairs. It was all down to timing now. Open fire too soon and Sergei would have time to dodge him and escape into the tangle of Manhattan's high rise. Open fire too late and he would overshoot his target, again giving Sergei time to escape. He only had a single machinegun, he'd better make every bullet count.

Jazz let his combat instincts take over as the _Shady Lady_ bore down on the Polikarpov. He opened fire only when the distance felt exactly right,.

The fighter plane trembled as tracer ammo flashed across the dusk towards the unsuspecting bomber. Jazz hit his mark but didn't do nearly as much damage as he had hoped. To his credit, Sergei immediately performed an impressive evasive maneuver to his left. He twisted his bomber onto the brink of stalling as he performed a near-suicidal hairpin turn and shot straight between the smoke stacks of a luxury cruise ship.

It didn't do him any good, because Jazz had already anticipated him to turn that way. He knew Sergei's type. The man was nothing if not a stickler for simple options and the quickest way for him to turn anywhere was to turn with the radial force of his engines. Jazz was already pushing down on the rudder to keep his sights trained on the bomber. The eager .60 caliber hammered away at the Polikarpov's right engine, bits and pieces flying off until flames burst out from under its cowling. Within a heartbeat the engine exploded, disintegrating the entire right wing. For one frozen moment the bomber kept on flying as if unbothered. Then the remaining left wing came up, gracefully turning the Polikarpov on its back. It continued to travel clockwise until the plane fell into an uncontrollable vrille down towards the East Side piers.

Despite his appearance as an austere lookout upon the bridge of the harbor tug _Vesta_, captain Herbert Morrison was nonetheless a content and peaceful man. He aspired no more then to make an honest living servicing the larger vessels on the East River with the fuel barge they were hauling. The civilian captain had never seen combat, neither marine nor aerial. So when he heard the rattle of gunfire overhead, he curiously turned to see what was going on. His breath stopped cold in his throat as an airplane spiraled down towards him with a burning stump of a wing. The noise as it dropped from the sky like a flaming meteor was overwhelming. It smashed into the barge and the world went white before the captain's eyes.

The explosion flung him off the _Vesta_'s bridge and into the water. The cold electrified his body and his knowledge of the water quality of the East River fired up his reflexes. Captain Morrison kicked off his boots and clawed his way back up.

When he resurfaced, the barge had been transformed into a raging monster of fire and smoke rising from the inky water. There was only a second of relief at the sight of his first mate and the deck hands being safely in the water before another airplane roared overhead. It's prop wash beat down on them as it vanished into the billowing smoke.

He shook his fist and threw every curse he knew after the maniacal pilot. Being a born and raised New Yorker, this took some time. At last, because there was little else he could do, Captain Morrison swam back to the _Vesta_, glad that she had suffered no more then superficial damage.

Taking down the Polikarpov had taken just that fraction of a second longer than anticipated and pulling out of their attack dive strained both Jazz and Alicia until their vision grew dark around the edges. It was too late to avoid the wall of smoke rising from the wreckage of the Polikarpov and the boat it crashed into. Everything vanished from sight as they shot through. When it cleared, the waterfront of Manhattan's East Side raced towards them. Jazz yanked, pulled, shoved and stomped the controls to steer his Devastator through the barricade of moored ships, cranes, warehouses and factories zipping by at a heart stopping distance. After dodging the last chimney stack, Jazz let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He throttled back and leveled out until they flew low above the buildings.

For a moment, both of them were stunned, the relief too big to sink in at once. The very magnitude of the thing they prevented came into perspective as they flew gently over the unsuspecting city glowing gold in the early evening below them. The millions of lives saved in those short seconds it took to shoot down one single airplane lived on unaware of their narrow escape. Yet one hesitation, one minute input in the wrong direction, one tiny miscalculation on his side and everything would have been dust in an expanding sphere of atomic fire.

Jazz was first to find his voice again. He thrust his fist in the air and shouted all the nerve-wracking tension out of him.

'Did you see that? Can you believe –'

He was interrupted by a noise as if dozens of hammers were pounding away at them. The _Shady Lady_ shook violently as sparks and glass stung his face. Without conscious thought his reflexes performed the only possible evasive maneuver. Down. Down as far as he could. Down until his propeller was shaving the heads of the people in the streets. The shooting stopped.

Jazz assessed his options in the blink of an eye. _Don't climb, if he's behind me, he'll shoot me in the back. Don't swerve, he'll get behind me and shoot me in the back. Stay low and he can't point his guns downward enough to shoot without crashing into the street. Use the buildings as shields. I only have seconds._

'It's not like the Broadway Bombers to open fire without warning,' Jazz called back to Alicia, 'but we're okay for now. You just sit tight back there, Alicia, and … Alicia? _Alicia?!_"

He craned his neck to glance behind him and his gut turned to ice. Looking forward again, he narrowly avoided swerving into the New York high rise. His mind refused to fully accept what his eyes had seen. Shock prevented him to comprehend nothing but fragments. Black hair swirling in a cold and invading wind. Blood soaking the leather of a flight jacket. A dark hole with ragged edges of cloth and flesh.

The sky turned a deeper shade of night. Jazz looked up, but shock prevented him to be surprised or alarmed any further. Above him, at a suicidal close range, Oleg hung in the seat belts of his personal MiG fighter plane, upside down and perfectly matching his speed. The very skill of doing this in the thick of Manhattan without killing them both was proof of an excellence seldom seen in flying. Heavy burns, teeth bared in a maniacal grin and the hatred radiating from the pinpricks of his eyes were proof of an insanity far more rare.

'Mister Grant! It is me, your buddy Oleg!'

Jazz did nothing but stare up at him.

'You destroy _Mat'Rossiya_, mister Grant.' Oleg's voice was positively ecstatic over the radio. 'You destroy _Ustrojstvo_! You foil plans of destroying Empire State and I do not care! Why do I not care, you ask? You kill my brother! You kill him like coward. Like poisoning mother's afternoon tea! You die for this!'

The rest of Oleg's rant was lost to Jazz. The world shrank until all he could see was the one who opened fire on Alicia. All he could see was the one who shot her. The woman he loved and to whom he never admitted it to.

Flying stacked on top of each other, they cut straight across the Manhattan peninsula and approached the western piers. Just before reaching the Hudson river, Jazz acted on instinct and pulled back on the throttle, shoved the stick first to his right and then pulled it towards him. Almost losing all of her airspeed and altitude in the hairpin turn, one of the _Shady_ _Lady_'s tailfins gouged the window panes of an unlit Manhattan office building before she recovered from the imminent stall.

Oleg reacted too late and shot out from between the warehouses dotting the western piers and onto the Hudson river. Even though he had a clear sky above the open water, his higher speed made his turn wider. For a few precious moments Jazz was rid of Oleg, although he knew it wouldn't be for long. He made another mental situation report and it didn't look good. His plane was damaged, albeit still in fighting shape. He had only one .60 caliber machine gun with an ammo supply that was already limited after spraying Sergei's bomber. He was in enemy territory; if the Empire State militia caught up with him, they might listen. Then again, they might not. After all, he was the pirate with a price on his head. Oleg could be anything from a visiting fellow military to a diplomatic escort hunting down an attacker. But the worst of it all was Alicia. Jazz didn't know whether she was dead or dying, only that he had to get her to a hospital as soon as humanly possible. He considered going straight for the hospital's landing strip, but immediately discarded the idea of landing in full view of a psychotic killer armed to the teeth.

It didn't happen often for Jazz to have panic cripple his otherwise cool and calculated mind, but right now he was damn near desperate for a miracle.

'Keep breathing, baby, just keep breathing,' he whispered softly to Alicia, lost in the roar of the engine pushing them deeper into the concrete jungle. 'I'll get you safe, just keep breathing.'

Something stirred in the corner of his eyes. Trained reflexes yanked the stick towards the cover of a tall building to his left. A trail of windows shattering under the hailstorm of bullets streaked after him. Jazz forced the _Shady Lady_ into a battle turn, spiraling around the monolithic skyscraper. Oleg's blood-red MiG shot out from between the high rise like a crimson shark scything through the reefs of Manhattan with all the murderous intent a machine could express. Keeping the skyscraper on his right, Jazz arced around and around, each turn taking him higher and higher. Every time Oleg thought he had a shot, he peppered the building with his guns, showering glass and concrete to the ground far below.

Suddenly there was no more building to circle around, only a frozen blue neon sign glowing in the night. Jazz looped the _Shady Lady_ over the rooftop, veering off only slightly to avoid the huge Pan Am neon sign. He dropped from the top of the airline office building like a thrill seeking albatross and dove straight down towards the myriad of red and yellow lights crawling in the squares of streets and avenues far below.

Streamers of tracer ammo shot past left and right as Jazz jinked and jived to keep his plane out of harms way. Street level rose up to fill his view. Within a heartbeat, he would have to decide where to go next.

A short distance to his left Jazz spotted the meandering Manhattan motorway. Like everything else in the city it was a giant, awe-inspiring construction; a two-storey river of concrete and blacktop, bisecting the downtown high rise. It was the urban life artery for ground transport in the Empire State. The two levels were designed to carry thousands of trucks, delivery vans, sports cars, limousines and common passenger cars to wherever their desire or duty took them. However, one specific ability was never thought of during the design and construction; whether or not somebody could fly a plane between the ground level and upper storey. Jazz steeled himself, pulled the _Shady Lady_ out of her suicidal dive and barrel-rolled towards the freeway. A hair raising turn and they were under the overpass.

Keeping the high powered fighter safely between two layers of concrete at a break neck speed of more then two hundred miles an hour was beyond daring, right through aerobatics and out the other end of insane. With teeth bared, knuckles white and every single muscle tensed tight enough to play the violin on, Jazz evaded trucks, buses and the occasional fire engine. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and stuck in his eyebrows, while the _Shady Lady_ darted from one side of the freeway to the other accompanied by blaring horns and flashing headlights.

'You play toad hiding under rock, mister Grant, but I know you there. You cannot escape wrath of glorious Soviet Union! I circle above you like vulture. Come out so I hunt you down like svinoi!'

_All right, buddy. You asked for it, _Jazz thought. _T__he next curve in the road is the one to make my move.__ Let's see how good your really are at follow the leader._

He shot from underneath the upper deck and onto Broadway like a lizard darting for safety. Gunning the engine to its maximum, he let the _Shady Lady_ pick up additional speed before pulling up.

Like every other major landmark in the Empire State, Grand Central Zeppelin Dock was a neon-lit art deco giant, rising monumentally above the neighboring buildings in the glittering night sky. Jazz moved between two of the supporting skyscrapers and rose up like a bat hunting for mosquitoes between trees. Hot on his tail was Oleg, who cried triumphantly at the sight of his prey. The dock was empty and awaiting its next visiting airship. Jazz was heading for the glass roof when he spotted the approaching zeppelin. A passenger airship by the looks of her, painted in a calm and inconspicuous gray. He spiraled around like before but broke off sharply before reaching the top. Oleg cursed for he had expected Jazz to repeat his previous maneuver instead of straying from his field of fire. Now he had to close the gap before the pirate was able to put the oncoming zeppelin between them.

...

Inside the approaching zeppelin, a drowsy crowd of passengers half-listened to the soothing voice of their flight attendant who had also been their nurse for the last week. Some were taking brightly colored pills while doing so, others rested their head against the window frames and stared outside in sullen silence.

'Dear ladies and gentlemen, passengers of the medical liner _Nepenthe_,' smiled the neutrally dressed woman. 'The Annual Empire State Psychiatric Institution's zeppelin cruise is nearing it's end. Although many of you may dread the tension of disembarking in the middle of the busiest city in the western world, I assure you that all necessary precautions have been taken to make the transition as smooth and calm as possible. You may have started this journey as nervous patients but on behalf of the medical staff and the crew of the _Nepenthe_, I do sincerely hope that you have found the comfort and calm that we know is ever present in the skies and –'

The rest was lost in the ear splitting roar of an airplane thundering past the windows on their right, rattling the glass with its very noise alone.

'Ladies and gentlemen, please try to stay calm!' said the flight attendant, recovering quickly from the initial shock. All her passengers stared out the window, dumbstruck and wide-eyed. She could only hope that it happened too fast for her patients to fully realize what just happened.

'There is absolutely no cause for concern and - _Dear lord, look out!_' shrieked the woman as another plane howled past the cabin on the left side, its guns barking and spewing fire.

This time chaos erupted. Passengers were climbing over each other, shrieking and shouting, grabbing their chest or foaming at the mouth. Some flapped their arms in a refound belief they had been ducks all along, others lay prone on their backs, pointing out pretty colors. The noise of screams and cries was deafening. Pillows, cups and pieces of clothing flew through the cabin. The flight attendant, at the end of her ropes, saw weeks worth of painstakingly soothing overburdened nerves go up in smoke. She sat down squarely on the floor, amidst the pandemonium and announced:

'Ladies and gentlemen, next stop Empire State. Welcome to New York City!'

...

Outside, circling each other like rabid ballet dancers, Jazz and Oleg continued their deadly dogfight. Sometimes Jazz managed to get behind Oleg and squeeze off a few shots, sometimes it was the other way around. Jazz traded height for speed, speed for turns; he played the controls of the _Shady Lady_ like a musician playing his finely tuned instrument. He dared not think of Alicia sitting behind him, her limp body thrown around inside her safety belts like a rag doll. Instead he forced his mind to focus on the fight at hand.

Despite his boasting, or actually true to it, Oleg proved himself to be a gifted pilot indeed. Maybe it was the hatred inside him that gave him his wings, maybe it was the madness, but whatever it was, Jazz had a hard time dealing with it. He knew he had a definite speed advantage without the weight of the regular guns and rockets loadout. Yet every time he used it to put some distance between them, Oleg opened fire, forcing him to dodge and make him lose airspeed again. It dawned on him, first as a gut feeling, but soon as a stark realization, that it was impossible to defeat Oleg head on. He was simply too lightly armed and his opponent too heavily. If he was to bring this to an end, he would have to find another way. He'd better do it damn quick too, before Alicia's time ran out.

_If you can't win a fair fight, then fight like a pirate!_ Jazz thought and an impulse rose up along his spine. Before he was be able to think it over - and in all probability dismiss it as being suicidal - he acted on it. He threw his plane end over end and dove down between the buildings of Manhattan. Its universe of lights and neon signs blurred past with an alarming speed. Oleg took the bait and followed.

Wherever he could, Jazz turned sharply and changed from street to avenue and back again until he found what he was looking for, all the while trying to evade Oleg's guns. In the city that never sleeps, a city that forms the center of attention for the entire east coast, expansion was not only necessary, it was an integral part of every day life. At any given time, there were buildings torn down and replaced by even higher ones in the city's never relenting quest to storm the heavens. Half a dozen blocks ahead of them was just such a project. A hundred floors of finished building, crowned with a skeletal frame and a mighty crane as a centerpiece. Within the confines of the surrounding skyscrapers, Jazz began to twist the _Shady Lady_ into a nauseating barrel roll.

Sky, asphalt, neon signs, street lights and buildings all revolved around him in an urban kaleidoscope. At the far end of this spiraling tunnel was an inner-city spider web of girders and crossbeams. The gap in between couldn't measure more then twenty feet in diameter. Jazz had one split second to wonder if the Devastator's wingspan would actually fit before everything went dark.

There was a moment of pitch-black and the hollow growl of the engine reverberating off the steel interior and then the blazing flood lights of the construction site bathed the sky around them in a harsh white light. Jazz would have been blinded if he hadn't closed his eyes just prior to clearing the darkness of the buildings interior. Without looking, by trusting nothing but his own situational awareness, he guided the _Shady Lady_ past the towering structure of the crane and away from the construction site. From behind them came a noise like a ferocious car crash. Dazzled by the bright lights, Oleg couldn't see where he was going. He collided with the crane's steel support beams, throwing up a shower of sparks, yet somehow managed to keep himself from crashing right there and then.

The tables were turned. Oleg's MiG was in dire condition; the left hand wings and tailfin were heavily damaged, armor plating was either gone or flapping in the wind and the engine fluttered and stuttered as a gooey black trail leaked out from under the cowling. Jazz immediately throttled up and performed a gut wrenching Hammerhead. Oleg tried to stay on his tail, but the MiG couldn't keep up. It started to belch out oily smoke like blood seeping from a wounded fish fleeing the attacking shark.

Finally behind the Russian again, Jazz chased down his prey without mercy. Skimming across streets and darting between majestic skyscrapers that raised themselves towards the dark sky, he stayed on Oleg's six. The Bolshevik tried to evade him by looping around a lumbering cargo zeppelin. Even as sky and earth traded places and star light became street light, the mad Russian couldn't get away. With the MiG's armor plating gone, Jazz could finally do some real damage. The pirate smiled cold as round after round found its mark.

'You think you can win, mister Grant?' screamed Oleg into his radio as he barely managed to dodge the latest salvo. 'Never! You cannot defeat me! You cannot defeat glorious Soviet Union!'

'Glorify _this_,' said Jazz and pulled the trigger.

He didn't miss. The tail of the MiG erupted in flames under the _Shady Lady_'s gunfire. In his mad quest for revenge Oleg didn't bother to bail out while he still could, but turned his dying fighter around to have another go at Jazz. As the fire reached the fuel tanks, the MiG disappeared in a ball of fire at the end of a long curve of black smoke. Oleg joined his brother without another word.

...

Whatever happened after his victory was a little fuzzy to Jason. Only a few things stood out in his memory. He could clearly recall the flaming wreckage of Oleg's plane falling down. His frantic search for the hospital, however, was a little fuzzy. He remembered how suddenly there were blue planes all around him; menacing twin-engine heavy fighters bearing the insignia of the Broadway Bombers. He couldn't remember talking to them, or explaining himself. He recalled their escort to their home base only dimly. It was nothing less then the very symbol of the city state they were in, the Empire State Building. A last dose of adrenaline enabled him to make a bloodcurdling belly landing on its extremely short landing strip, hundreds of feet above street level. He remembered coming to a halt at the very edge of the runway. His recollection then faded again; images of fire fighting crew, medical personnel and police officers muddled together until fatigue finally claimed its toll.


	19. Chapter 19 When The Dust Settles

**Chapter 19 When The Dust Settles**

There were only a few fair-weather cumulus clouds visible, emphasizing the sky above as Jason enjoyed a quiet moment looking up. Even though the skies were clear, the stars were absent that night, blotted out by the ever-present lights of downtown New York. Standing on the edge of the runway near the top of the Empire State Building, the city was laid out before him like pirate treasure, vibrant in its endless surge of human energy even at midnight. Sirens sounded somewhere far off, deep inside the metropolis. Music drifted out from behind him.

'Guess who?' came a voice.

Jason's mouth curled into a wry smile.

'Loyle, you have no idea how much you fall short of the expectations that particular question raises,' he answered.

If the first impression of Loyle 'Show-Stopper' Crawford could be summed up in a single word, it would be: 'playboy.' He had the flamboyance of a Hollywood actor and a family fortune behind him that made many wonder what the hell he was doing in the military. His signature flying cap, askew as always, and his leather flying jacket were frequently thought of as nothing but accessories to aid him in his fancies of playing combat pilot. Jason knew better. Crawford _was_ a combat pilot and an ace to boot. He had won and lost like many of their kind and the sense of duty went deep inside the man. Yet beyond that sense of duty was something else. The desire, the urge, the addiction to power up that beast of an engine, to point that nose towards the end of the runway and let loose all the power at your command that would take you up. Up and away from the earth's bounds and limitations. Jason knew this, because he felt it too. All except the sense of duty. It wouldn't do for any self-respecting pirate to be bothered with such trivialities.

'Good evening to you too, Grant,' continued Crawford as he stood beside the pirate. He drew from his cigarette and exhaled a new cloud into the air. 'Admiring the view, are you? Can't blame you. Late night New York City seen from the top of the Empire State Building? Aren't much places in the world that can offer you a view like this. Which reminds me, do you by any chance remember what I promised you the last time you came to visit my town?'

'Not precisely, no. Didn't it run somewhere along the lines of: "If you or your two-bit pirate crew ever show up in these skies again, I'll shoot you down, patch you up, shoot you down again, throw you off the Brooklyn Bridge and shoot you once more while you're falling to your watery grave."?'

'Amazingly accurate. Especially for someone with a clearly faulty memory, because here you are again.'

'Didn't you make that promise while your plane was going down in flames after I shot your tail section clean off?' asked Jason, still staring out to the city.

Crawford nodded, his eyes betraying the insincerity of his smile. 'That doesn't really make me any more lenient for you to show up again.'

'Yeah, it must really bug you that you didn't get to shoot me down.'

Crawford nodded again, this time without any smile whatsoever.

'And the whole thing with president La Guardia holding this celebration held in my name?'

Jason gestured towards the music behind them. The other man's face darkened.

'Especially now that you're under orders to give the Firebirds an honorary escort out of the Empire State.'

'Don't flatter yourself too much, pirate,' sneered the militia ace, 'That particular detail would be my idea and there's nothing 'honorary' about it. Let's just say I want to make absolutely sure you're gone when you do. Anyway, if your highness could spare a minute, there is someone who wants to talk to you.'

Loyle threw his cigarette over the edge and turned around without waiting for the other man. Jason sighed. He took one last look at glowing Manhattan and then returned to the party.

The celebration, held in the Empire State Building's ballroom, was a few storey's down from the runway. A big band, led by none other then Count Basie himself, played lively on the central stage as an assorted crowd of city officials, business big shots, air militias and pirates alike mingled and danced across the floor.

Crawford expertly dodged president La Guardia and his entourage. He led the two of them to the other side of the ball room and into a small office. Jason's heartbeat increased. He craned his neck to see who was waiting for him, even though he knew better then to get his hopes up when he knew she wouldn't be there.

Instead, a short man dressed in tweed stood waiting patiently. Crawford gave Jason the wink and the gun and left the two of them alone, expertly picking up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as he closed the door. Jason took stock of this new stranger. The man was in his late fifties, short and slight of build. A defiant shock of grey hair stood out on his head. His most striking features, however, were the amazingly cheerful and friendly eyes. His entire demeanor radiated a childlike giddiness as if the world around him marveled him constantly. On the table beside him lay a very familiar briefcase.

'Ah, mister Grant, leader of the now famous Firebirds! Please, may I call you Jason?'

Jason was a little overwhelmed by this cheerful person, who seemed so genuinely pleased to meet him, and found it impossible to object.

'Good, good. My name is Albert. Albert Einstein to be exact.'

Bells rang in the back of Jason's mind.

'Albert Einstein,' he repeated. 'Initials A.E. The same initials as on that wretched briefcase over there that started this whole mess. You're the man Babcock was going to meet here in Manhattan. The one he wanted to deliver those calculations to. The last piece of research the Bolsheviks needed to finish their doomsday device.'

'You have a sharp mind, yes! You're right, it was indeed my briefcase that you accidentally took while you escaped the ill fated _Pacifica Princess_.'

Einstein patted the briefcase. 'We took this after we pulled you from your plane. You cannot fathom my relieve to see it safely returned to me, Jason. My colleague, Mr. Babcock, can be a little overconfident at times, but he really is a dab hand at running through the calculations. Of course, he lacks the creativity to come up with any real breakthroughs on his own, but he has been very useful as a second opinion, to see if my initial calculations were right, so to say. It was a mistake of him to travel alone under such suspicious circumstances. I advised him not to, of course. If only he had been a little more careful, this simple little briefcase would not have caused so much inconvenience to the both of us.'

Jason was about to explain, in lots of graphic detail, just how much inconvenience it had caused exactly, but he found that he was unable to be mad at this remarkable man, or even feel angry at all in his presence.

'So what's going to happen next?' he inquired, 'A nice big cover up? I noticed that president La Guardia never fully explained the exact nature of the threat I prevented in his speech. After all this its goodbye to the friendly pirates and back to the drawing board? Designing an even bigger and better bomb?'

'You have me at a dilemma there, Jason,' answered Einstein, looking genuinely worried. The cheerful presence about him disappeared. 'A real conundrum. Would you believe that all the research concerning atomic power really started out as nothing more then a quest for free energy? To supply an entire country, warming all its residents and power their machines? Don't bother answering. It's rhetorical really. It didn't take long before someone thought of a way to apply the general principle to create an explosive device of unparallelled magnitude. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Us scientists can get carried away with our inventions. We do not think in terms of right or wrong at such times. There are so many other people who do that for us, that we sometimes do not bother. Did you know the inventor of the smallpox vaccine was accused of heretics? Or that Galileo Galilee was put before the inquisition for simply proving the basic truth about the Earth's actual position in regard to the sun?'

Without waiting for an answer, Einstein picked up the briefcase and held it in his hands. He stared at it absentminded for a while, while muted sounds of music permeated through the office walls. Two dry clicks and the briefcase was open.

'So here we are,' he continued, 'Pandora's box has been opened, the demon inside has been allowed to escape. Then something strange happened. Something unique. The demon was destroyed by a phoenix before fulfilling its horrifying potential. The cat is once more in the bag, so to say. At least for the time being.'

The man pulled a box of matches out of the inside pocket of his tweed coat.

'This briefcase contains the entire research of our little scientist group scattered across the continent. There are traces left, here and there, but without this, without me I dare say, the research would be set back at least another eight years.'

A quick stroke alongside the matchbox and the match flared, drawing the eyes of both men to its humble yet ominous flame.

'Did you know there are times I wished I could discover something that could only be used for the good of mankind, Jason? Something pure, something fundamentally harmless, something impossible to be twisted and used by man against his fellow man?'

The white stacked contents of the briefcase lay vulnerable and exposed under the flickering threat of the burning match.

'It's no good wishing for something like that, Mr Einstein,' said Jason and looked the other man in the eyes. 'The very nature of man dictates his survival at all costs. Believe me, I know. I've seen it happen with my own eyes, from the jagged-edged mountains of Manchuria to the bar rooms of Sky Haven. He will seek to use anything, anything at all, as a weapon to ensure his continued existence.'

Einstein's shoulders sagged.

'You're right,' he said softly, 'How ironic. The very apex of his creativity and man nearly destroys himself.'

Jason watched the match tremble and fall. The flame nearly went out, but held on to its slender wooden stalk. A corner of paper caught, the edges glowing up from plain white to incandescent orange and darkening to black as the flames moved onwards, hungry for more. The fire grew and grew until the whole briefcase was ablaze. The leather cover held the fire inside it like a miniature incinerator. The data that was used to create the _Ustrojstvo_, a device capable of wiping out an entire city, blast it to rubble and turn the ground on which it stood to glass in a single burst of atomic fire now disappeared slowly into smoke and ashes due to its most humble form imaginable; a single wooden match.

'What about the wreckage of the Polikarpov? Whatever's left of that bomb is still there.' asked Jason flatly, his eyes still trained on the burning briefcase.

'Oh, that. They have retrieved it already. They sent divers that very night and hauled up the remains of the plane and the bomb. All they have, however, is a tangle of twisted metal and a lump of highly radio-active plutonium. Both are quite useless without the accompanying calculations. Creating an atomic bomb is highly precise work, Jason. If you don't get it exactly right, it won't work at all. No, the crash and the fire made sure it cannot be reverse engineered. I told them that already. So they went after the wreckage of the _Mat'Rossyia_ instead to claim the secrets she holds. Imagine their frustration - and my carefully concealed glee – when they found out that it sank into the Hudson submarine canyon, over 3.500 feet deep and impossible to reach.'

'That won't stop "Them" from trying again, Mr Einstein,' said Jason, tearing his gaze from the black flakes of scientific papers drifting through the air, carried away by warm smoke.

'I know, but for now the world is safe. Sure, it will be in peril sooner or later. Maybe from the same thing, maybe from something else entirely. Who will know?'

Einstein shrugged. Then he smiled his sparkling smile and winked as if to say he acknowledged the fact, but didn't let it bother him too much. Some things were just the way they are. You could go mad worrying about it, or you could be glad to be alive and look at that strange and wonderful world and discover its secrets.

They carefully put out the briefcase together. Its contents were now a muddy, sooty mess, unrecognizable for what it once was. To Einstein's delight, one clasp still worked and he closed the scorched leather a final time before throwing it in a garbage chute.

'That goes straight down to the incinerator in the basement, just to make sure,' grinned the genius scientist.

Opening the window, a breeze swept through the office and cleared it of smoke, filling it with fresh and promising air instead. Einstein walked Jason to the door.

'I have much work to do, Jason. Even though you stopped the Russians, it was a glimpse of things to come and come they will. There are scientists in Europe who are also working on this and other terrible technologies. It may be unavoidable to return to the research in order to prevent less tolerant governments to hold its power unchallenged. Now, if you will excuse me, I'll return to my duties. I do hope we'll meet again some day, perhaps under better circumstances.'

Outside, Marty and Patrick stood waiting for him. The three of them went to get some drinks as Jason told them what happened.

'Einstein, huh?' said Marty elated, 'Already met the old guy earlier this evening. I had the most interesting talk with him. He told me to visit a friend of his, somebody called von Braun, to discuss my theories on rocketry. You see, I told him about my idea of using concentrated hydrogen peroxide with a potassium permanganate catalyst to create highly pressurized steam? That'll give you a decent powersource to use turbine-driven fuel and oxidizer pumps!'

Jason nodded absent-mindedly, his mind miles away from Marty's passionate techno- monologue. Nora and Margaret came over to get him to dance with them, but he refused, claiming he was not yet fully recovered from the fight with Oleg. The twins looked doubtful, but returned to the dance floor to hunt for other interesting menfolk.

'You best keep an eye on them, Marty,' said Patrick. 'You know, to keep an eye on those wildcats before they tear some poor guy to shreds.'

Marty nodded. He always looked after the girls and he'd be damned if some snotty little rich kid was going to lay a finger on them now.

'Not recovered, my ass,' continued Patrick when they were alone, 'I know you're thinking about Alicia, Jason. You have been the entire time we were here.'

Jason looked away from his friend.

'I just wish she was here as well,' he sighed, 'It doesn't feel right to party without her.'

'Yeah, well, getting shot does have a way of messing up your plans and expectations.'

The men stood silent side by side for a moment when Antoinette came along, bottle in hand.

'I'm sorry, mon capitaine, but I'm afraid I'll be needing this man for my own selfish needs. Not only to fend off all these hopeless other men seeking my attention, but also because I realised we were fools to keep our secret. Our latest gageure showed me the futility of such games. So I intend to enjoy our time together while we still can.'

'Honey, this may not be the best time,' said Patrick, giving Antoinette a warning look.

'No, she's right. Go and enjoy yourselves. I'll be okay. Honest, I will,' interrupted Jason and pushed his friend into Antoinette's waiting arms. He watched them dance, happily swept away by the crowd. He spotted the other Firebirds as well, dancing, romancing, telling tall stories of their past adventures. Everybody was present and accounted for, all his pilots and all his zeppelin crew. Everybody except one. Jason's spirit tempered. He knew it was the way things were, but still. Wasn't it amazing how lonely a man could be in the middle of such a crowd?

As soon as nobody watched him, he made for the lobby. A short elevator ride later and Jason stood on the Empire State Building's landing strip once again, breathing in the night's fresh air. The gouges he had torn with his emergency landing were still visible as patched up lines in the tarmac. Above him, Jason saw a familiar elongated shape in the air. The _Damocles_, fully repaired and back into her original tan, was attached to the mooring mast atop the Empire State Building like the world's largest weather vane. The stylized phoenix painted on the side of her hull greeted him in all her blazing colors thanks to spotlights built into the engine nacelles. That had been Marty's idea. He figured they might as well join in with New York's celebration. The gondola below was utter darkness.

The boarding ramp was a few flights of stairs away and it took Jason but a minute before he was walking down the unlit and silent corridors of their zeppelin. He passed the bridge, the stairs to his own quarters, the rebuilt bar, several of the crew's personal cabins and finally stopped in front of an unmarked door. Jason lay his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. He knew that what was on the other side of that door had made him rethink his life all over again, doubting between carrying on and giving up on what was basically a life of crime, no matter how spectacular or thrilling.

Steeling himself, he stepped inside. It was dark, darker even then the rest of the ship with the curtains drawn. Waiting for his eyes to adjust themselves, he gradually made out the prone figure lying upon the bed in front of him. Jason went to stand beside it and looked down upon the still figure of Alicia. She was still as beautiful as ever. Jason had to swallow down his emotions.

Suddenly, a warm hand took his.

'Hey baby, what are you doing here?' asked Alicia with a sleepy voice. 'Is the party over already?'

Jason was glad for the darkness as it hid the wet gleam in his eyes.

'Just thought I'd check up on you, that's all. How are you doing?' he answered, forcing his voice to stay level.

'I'm bored out of my mind, what do you think? You're out partying with all the celebrities and government bigshots like I used to do back home. The one thing I'm practically a professional at and I'm forced to stay in bed!'

'You know, the doc said another week or two and you'll be on her feet again, causing trouble like always.'

Alicia slapped him softly on his arm and smiled.

'You bet I will,' she said, 'I heard Margaret took my plane while defending the Damocles from the Broadway Bombers, because her Kestrel was shot down by the Russians? She better not have a single scratch on her, or so help me, I will never let you hear the end of it!'

Jason said nothing for a while and just looked at her.

'I'm glad you're still here,' he tried, but it seemed so insufficient to what he really wanted to say. Alicia smiled up at him.

'Sit with me for a while?' she said, 'You can tell me everything that happened while I was away.'

Jason sat down on the bed next to her and held her gently in his arms. She winced only once from the bullet wound. It would be a long recovery before her left arm was back to it's former strength, but the most important thing was that it would be. All that would be left of her injury would be an impressive scar on her shoulder.

He started telling her about the Spooks, who had taken them deep into the Industrial States and their spectacular escape from their underground base in the middle of the night. He told her how they managed to find the _Mat'Rossiya_ again and his terrifying flight up at the flying fortress while strapped to four huge rockets.

'I remember the rest,' interrupted Alicia, 'Right up to us shooting down Sergei. Then everything is… gone. I woke up in the hospital with you sitting beside me.'

'Oleg got you. He must have seen us shoot down his brother and then snapped. In his madness he probably didn't even notice which guns he used. They were just .30 caliber paperpunchers. It was a lucky shot for him to even get through the _Shady Lady_'s armor at all. Lucky for him, not so lucky for you. Although, anything heavier then that .30 cal and you and I wouldn't... wouldn't be…'

Alicia took his hand and kissed it.

'Don't worry about that now. I'm here, you're here.' She smiled again. 'Just keep talking.'

Jason told her what had happened to the rest of the Firebirds while they were chasing after Sergei. After their radio contact, they still tried to reach the city as fast as they could. Getting a reaction did not prove very difficult. The reaction in itself, did.

Loyle 'Show-Stopper' Crawford, leading his personal squadron, the Madison Venturers, immediately ordered the capture or destruction of the pirate zeppelin _Damocles_ invading the Empire State airspace. The Firebirds were forced to defend themselves in a brutal battle over Harlem. Wicked had to land her Warhawk on the Great Lawn of Central Park with two engines shot to pieces and scaring the daylights out of the evening strollers. Yet all the while, they were still in the dark concerning the fate of Jason and Alicia.

Even though they were outnumbered three to one, the Firebirds fought like rabid dogs to reach Manhattan. Despite having superior power on their side, the Madison Venturers never managed to gain the upper hand in battle. Crawford must have realised that the only way he could win the battle was to admit failure and call in for additional air support, but decided to listen to what the Firebirds had to say first. After careful consideration he gave them the benefit of the doubt. He promised them to send a wing of airplanes to investigate if the Firebirds agreed to retreat back to the _Damocles_ and allow themselves to be escorted to a military airbase in Jersey. There, they were incarcerated until further notice. When the news of Jason's success reached them a spontaneous party broke out among the crew. In the following confusion the guards tried to calm them down, only to be caught unaware by the charms of the ladies. Before they realized they were missing their keys, the Firebirds were already lifting off and heading downtown. Instead of starting another precarious fight over a densely populated area, Crawford allowed them to dock with the Empire State Building and visit their leader. They found him unconscious on a hospital bed, collapsed from fatigue, while the doctors operated on Alicia.

A few hours of rest and a stiff drink was all it took to revive Jason and together with the crew he was debriefed by president La Guardia himself. Lucky for them, reports from the river patrols and coast guard confirmed their story.

The president promptly invited them to a huge celebration in their name. The president also ordered a full repair and restocking of the _Damocles_ and even offered a letter of Marque to the Firebirds. Jason was tempted, but declined politely, unwilling to limit his choices as a pirate. As soon as Alicia's condition was stabilised, she was moved to her cabin on board their zeppelin. Jason wanted to stay with her, but the others managed to convince him she needed her rest and he was expected at the celebration. He put up with the whole show, until he had grown tired of the hollow praise without the woman he loved next to him to share the spotlights.

They spent a comfortable silence in eachothers arms when he was finished.

'Jason, do you have any plans for the immediate future?' started Alicia.

'Actuallly, I have been thinking about that. I - '

'Just tell me you won't turn your back on the rest of the crew because of me,' interrupted Alicia. 'I started loving you _because_ you're a pirate, not in spite of. Don't give that up now, not for me. I want to join you, not make you leave it all behind.' She gestured dramatically and added in a mock voice: 'I want us to reap the bounty of the skies together, me heartie!.'

Jason grinned. In one stroke, she had swept away all his doubt and indecisions.

'Oh, you know how it is. Given our history we'll be flat broke within two weeks. Even though we're big time heroes now, our friend Loyle has warned all the major shipping companies around here and patrols have doubled. An easy prey is out of the question.'

'It's a shame we never got our 50,000 back from the Russians,' sighed Alicia.

'Yeah, about that,' said Jason and hauled an old duffel bag from under her bed. He loosened the strap and showed her its content. It was crammed full of money. Alicia's eyes went wide.

'That's a hell of a lot more then 50,000,' she said.

'Yep, my guess is our buddy Oleg might not have had a return trip to Moscow in mind after all. By the looks of things he packed everything of value into this bag and took it with him. Not only the Einstein briefcase and your ransom, but also cash, jewelry, stock certificates, stuff like that. Probably from targets of opportunity. I heard there was a whole string of Red Skull raids around the borders of the People's Collective that didn't match up with their known locations.

'And they let you keep it?' prompted Alicia in disbelief.

'Hell no! Walt pulled this out of the _Shady Lady_'s cockpit when everybody was busying themselves with us two. He put the briefcase back for them to find though. I'm telling you, that guy knows a thing or two about dealing with governments. '

'So, you're not worried somebody'll come after us?'

'They might. Then again, they might not. If I had to worry about every pirate gang or air militia that has a bone to pick with us, I'd be a piss poor excuse for a pirate, now would I?'

Alicia winced from the pain in her shoulder. 'I'd laugh if it wouldn't hurt so much. Where to then, my captain? Is there any specific place you want to go?'

'As a matter of fact, there is,' said Jason. 'I overheard a very interesting conversation this evening. I overheard the head of the Moria Mining & Drilling Company talking of a team of surveyors that found the remains of a horse drawn carriage deep down inside an ice cave, somewhere near Falstaff in the Republic of Texas. I believe they have stumbled upon the trail of the actual Falstaff treasure, a stolen shipment of gold and silver bound from Albuquerque to San Francisco in 1881. A hastily assembled posse tracked down the outlaws soon enough, but in the resulting firefight all the thieves were killed. They never got the chance to tell where they'd hidden the loot. People have been digging around there forever without finding so much as a trace of that treasure. The company is gathering an expedition to explore the ice caves and I dare say it's our duty to aid them in their quest. If we hurry, we can make it to the Republic of Texas within the week.'

The proposal was met with a warm welcome from Alicia's side as she pulled Jason closer. She kissed him long and tender. They continued to kiss passionately as below them, the rest of the Firebirds partied as if there was no tomorrow. Overhead, the winds were favorable, the sky was clear and the light in the east promised to become a beautiful day for flying.

**The End**


End file.
